


DAWNBRINGER CHRONICLES: Outset

by CrazyRob



Series: DAWNBRINGER CHRONICLES [1]
Category: Final Fantasy, No More Heroes (Video Games), Variable Geo | V.G. (Video Games)
Genre: Coming of Age, Deconstruction, F/F, F/M, High Dystopia, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Religious Elements, So many f-bombs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29008563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyRob/pseuds/CrazyRob
Summary: A world gone wrong. A flickering candle providing scant illumination in a long, cold night. Will humanity survive to see the dawn?
Series: DAWNBRINGER CHRONICLES [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128074
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

DAWNBRINGER CHRONICLES

…

I don't own anything except for the OC's I'll point out.

This story is part fiction and part mental exorcism, as are all my stories. If you're familiar with Tiger Chronicles, you know my brand can get darker than The Joker, Kefka, and Pennywise doing a comedy routine at a four year old cancer victim's funeral, and _yes_ , I am aware I may go to hell for that sentence.

This series will cover mature topics with a heavy dose of reality in place of erotica. This is not a harem or erotic story. There will also be dark humor. Turn back now if you are offended.

You were warned.

…

PROLOGUE:

**A World Gone Wrong**

_“A lie doesn't become truth, wrong doesn't become right, and evil doesn't become good, just because it's accepted by a majority.”_

-Booker T. Washington

…

At a glance, the world looked clean enough, at least in comparison to other possibilities.

No nuclear war had turned the land into glowing, scorched graveyards or poisoned the air with deadly black rain. No biological weapons rampaged out of control, swarming the earth in a mindless hunger as they looked for more victims. There was no robot uprising instigated by a mad scientist, with the populace living in terror and waiting for the next wave of industrial robots turned war engines to come rampaging through their cities.

At a glance, someone weary of the eternal wars between light and darkness in other realms might find it an acceptable place to live. Most people living there, on that seemingly peaceful earth, would tell you much the same- life was good.

Then, an outsider would look at the entertainment _Du Jour_ , and realize with mounting horror that here, evil did not come rampaging into your cities as it did in other places.

Here, it was nurtured. Cultivated. Advertised. And if you had enough money, you could buy tickets to watch it happen up close.

There were two events that the world stopped to watch: the Variable Geo tournament, and a duel between UAA assassins. The latter was considered the more risqué of the two, with footage of varying quality available depending on how much you were willing to pay and how well connected you were. To see a UAA fight up close was to risk your life as well- short of nuclear bombs and widespread chemical/biological agents, there were no rules and no regards for spectator safety.

Because the fight only ended when one or both assassins were dead, to hear of someone surviving a UAA loss was almost unheard of, and it was the finality of death that made footage of the battles all the more valuable among the wealthy. Tournaments, or rapid successive matches, were even rarer events. To have watched the carnage live through a camera was a privilege. To see it up close and live was the sort of rare event you bragged about for the rest of your life.

The former and widely more accepted of the two was, depending on who you asked, a legitimate means of advertisement and women's martial arts competition with clear risks for losing, a great thing for the lonely to enjoy in privacy, one of the telltale signs of civilization as a whole decaying into something awful and unrecognizable, or a clear sign that humanity was beyond all redemption and needed to be scoured from the face of the earth forever, preferably with fire.

Variable Geo was a Japanese-originating tournament where young waitresses, trained in martial arts and possessing superhuman qualities, would fight to either submission or knockout, clad in the uniform of their place of employment. The one winner who went undefeated through every single match took home a prize that had varied through the years- currently the prize was set at about five million USD, and a year's free advertising for their establishment.

There were no second place prizes.

Ostensibly, the penalty that awaited any competitor who lost was in place to "teach the true shame of defeat". More practically, it allowed a legal means for the depraved to enjoy themselves.

Public rape as the cameras rolled and cell phones took pictures, with no break for recuperation or medical attention after what had likely been a desperate, no-holds-barred fight. Men chosen for their physical and mental qualities- endowment enough for a thorough violation, and a lack of any moral qualms about what they did. The humiliation lasted until each of the men were satisfied, with very few limits on what they could do. Not out of concern for the fallen, but only to ensure it catered to as many as possible.

Many winners could not look back once they'd left the stage. Some of the victors were seen weeping. Only two time champion Reimi had remained stoic, even amused.

The awfulness did not stop there. A loser could expect to see her ordeal on every news broadcast the next few weeks, plastered on the internet, stills in magazines. Some managed to pick themselves up afterwards, to either try again or fade into anonymity. Quite a few fell into self-destructive habits to cope or suicide. Counseling groups willing to face the stigma of being 'killjoys' were rare. Mockery, scorn, and harassment were far more common. You either took it all, or you went home with not even your dignity.

All or nothing.

This of course raises the question as to why anyone would willingly sign up. The marketed reason was that these women- sixteen at the youngest, late twenties at oldest- put their pride and dignity on the line to prove they were the best. The real reasons ranged from person to person, but the most common were debt and pressure. The Jahana group's reach was global, and if the fans wanted to see a repeat performance from a defeated fighter- a _senshi-_ who wanted to crawl under a rock, cry, and wait until her name faded into obscurity, they would find her and make it clear that the alternatives to another tournament would be far, far worse.

Some ran. Most of those died or suffered horribly, then died. Others chose a more permanent means of escape. Whatever the case, the Jahana group had their recruiters constantly scouting for new talent- girls who showed martial arts prowess, ki use, and attractiveness were prime targets. In a pinch, they would just look for the last quality and squeeze until the target cracked- after all, the fight for many was just an appetizer.

Variable Geo _senshi_ had fans, of course. Many of the women who adored them because of their fighting prowess and sympathized with their pain and humiliation sent letters of encouragement and support, weeping with them and begging them not to give up. The rest were nowhere near as kind- obscene requests and taunts were the norm.

To be a part of the "Penalty Crew" responsible for this horror was to join a fraternity that was allowed to indulge in a depraved fantasy as their job description. For all too many, it was seen as the ultimate alpha male's club. Others saw it as selling your soul and becoming a monster, something truly beyond all redemption. Your job was to _rape and humiliate._

Penalty Crew were placed under legal protection from repercussions both in and out of court. That didn't stop them from getting into 'accidents' and very-definitely-not-accidents. Everyone who didn't envy or respect the Penalty Crew reacted with horror or hatred, and while there was some semblance of watching each other's backs, the fact of the matter was that none of them were particularly selfless or brave individuals. A member who wanted to survive invested their earnings into weapons, combat training, and body armor.

Even then, there were things to worry about- any injury or condition that made them unable to perform was grounds for immediate termination, and after that, they were _truly_ alone. The best bet for many former members was to try to fake their death and disappear into the shadows forever, because even in this world there were people who were outraged and disgusted enough to make it their life's work to end this horrible spectacle- one career rapist at a time, if need be.

Some of these avengers were sympathetic fans who got their hands on a weapon and were lucky or skilled enough when it counted. Other times, a vengeful parent or sibling expressed their displeasure in various fatal, painful ways. Many times, however, a Penalty Crew member's corpse was found displayed somewhere prominent, often in an area where a VG match had been held, nude and sporting numerous wounds that told of a slow death, with a single word carved into the chest-

_Verum-i._

Latin for "truth".


	2. Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy loyal to his mother and girlfriend. His father dead in an 'accident', his family life has received an unwelcome guest bringing abuse and terror. As a new, horrific rage threatens to consume him, he tried to focus this fury before it hurts anyone he cares about, and seeks the one person who can help him...
> 
> Travis Touchdown.

ALEXANDER

SANTA DESTROY, CALIFORNIA

TOWNSEND RESIDENCE

3:16 P.M.

There was the crack of wood on wood, grunting and straining, as a man in a red jacket seemingly did his damndest to kill the boy in front of him.

Overhead strike, sweep, parry, counter, jump back, dodge, thrust, sweep, cut, kick at the legs, dodge the grab, roll, block, strike, swing-

The fierce melee took place at the mansion once owned by the infamous assassin Death Metal, now dead at the hands of the man trying to bludgeon a teenager to death. Before his demise, the mansion was a luxurious jewel of decadence in the hellhole that was Santa Destroy, a paradise in hell, paid for in blood.

Assassination used to be a risky proposition to even consider. Unless willing to do the job by oneself, it involved seeking out a professional to do something explicitly illegal and punishable by death or life imprisonment. Once a professional that wasn't a cop in disguise _was_ located, there was the matter of price, ensuring anonymity, and making sure the job was done. Usually, barring the rare need to 'make an example' of a target and if at all possible, an assassin would ideally engineer a freak accident to do the job.

Bullet wounds and poison left a very clear message that someone wanted the victim dead. Bad brake lines or gas explosions brought about investigations, but forced the law to prove malicious intent existed in the first place.

That was _not_ how things were done nowadays.

Strike, parry, swing, parry again, a desperate two handed baseball swing hitting nothing but air turned into a desperate roll, block, block, block, backpedal, catch breath-

The man in the red jacket, hair slicked back and seemingly uncaring for sweat or heat, raised an eyebrow. "Huh, you're actually gonna make me work this time, aren't you? And here I thought I was just doing _FOREPLAY-_ "

Now he started getting serious, and the boy's defense got more desperate.

Assassinations today were something much, much different. If you wanted someone dead, you need only have a truly staggering supply of liquid funds and the location of your friendly neighborhood contact for the United Assassins Association, the other source of depraved entertainment in this world, and perhaps a different shade of dark than the Jahana Group Variable Geo. Once you'd paid a price which varied depending on who you wanted dead, a professional they hired took care of the messy business, anonymity of your hit guaranteed.

These jobs, of course, were where someone wanted someone else dead, was willing to pay the UAA's exorbitant fees to put their job on the market, and usually the details boiled down to personal taste. There were a good number of assassins that were simply in it because they realized killing was their forte and that it was profitable. These types generally stuck to very tried and true means of killing, sacrificing flair for practicality.

However, the assassins that wanted to prove they were a cut above someone with a gun, beam blade, or knowledge of poison usually focused on a _style._ A brand of death refined all on their own, to be specifically requested when someone wanted to make a point.

A _signature._

The law knew better to get involved in jobs, other than discouraging citizens from intervening or getting a drink to watch the spectacle. The target and those willing to stand with them were allowed to fight back under the letter of the law, of course- assassins had to prove their salt- but to challenge a kill in court as unlawful or illegal when it was sanctioned by the UAA was almost unheard of. A vengeful relative or lover had much better odds becoming an assassin on their own, and working their way up to the point where they could challenge the assassin in question, one on one.

A duel.

UAA assassin duels were almost always filmed with remote cameras, because while the senshi of Variable Geo had a code all their own making born of honor among themselves- "we don't aim to kill, and we stop when the other yields"- Assassins at best offered a swift death and very little else. In a life or death battle, there was absolutely no holding back. Firearms, explosives, ki attacks, black magic, booby traps, giant mecha and wave motion guns were all fair game, and there was no pity for the bystander who got too close.

A duel was still something that you took a day off work to watch, though. Even through a camera, you wanted to see it happen live, see what happened when two professional killers dropped any pretense of subtlety and just tried to kill each other, and then it was truly All Or Nothing. If you fell, the best you could do was close your eyes and hope your opponent prided themselves on a clean, quick kill. Most assassins gave that at least, and it was for that reason some considered UAA fights the lesser of the two evils- at least you died fighting with honor, and a cleanup crew would dutifully clean up the mess your corpse made without any undue further humiliation.

(Others would ask if perhaps humanity could find a way to keep themselves entertained without resorting to _murdering or raping_ each other. This was the kind of crazy talk that got you investigated for ties to _Verum-i.)_

Finding Variable Geo contestants was hard, given the penalties that awaited everyone but the grand champion. Finding a UAA assassin was easy, with the right amount of money. Finding a UAA assassin that survived their first duel and didn't retreat into the shadows was a blue moon event.

Death Metal, a.k.a. Count Townsend, was considered to be an up and coming master of the art of assassination- ki enhanced durability, the split image technique, with each illusion just as deadly as the original, and the strength and skill to wield an Orange II _Zanbato_ beam katana with speed that belied its size. A sure pick for the next number one UAA assassin.

Then he got killed by a no-name _otaku_ with nothing but a homemade, third-rate beam katana won in an internet auction, middling ki durability, a penchant for wrestling moves and a frankly embarrassing habit of screaming out the attack names from a magical girl anime so saccharine it made _Animaniacs_ look like Dirty Harry. That this nobody survived his encounter with Death Metal was considered a fluke. That he made it to the final rank was unbelievable.

That he walked away afterward was _insane._ And so the new UAA assassins all whispered his unofficial title, and even more rarely his real name…

Travis Touchdown.

The _Crownless King._

It was this same man wielding a solid-wood training katana, seemingly attempting to maim, cripple, or kill his current target, a blonde-haired boy who didn't have the decency to lay down and die in a puddle of blood and urine after the first flurry of blows, and that was probably because the stated goal of this exercise, among other grueling tasks, was to make the boy something _respectable…_ or as respectable as anyone in Santa Destroy could be.

Alexander "Alex" Cross, a muscular, messy haired blonde with acid-green eyes, brought his wooden katana up just quickly enough to stop a not-quite-full-power overhead strike that nevertheless sent him backwards. Blessed with a fair complexion and just the right amount of scars to make it clear he wasn't just another boy-band reject or dime-a-job thug, like any other youth in Santa Destroy, he'd been through his fair share of scrapes, beatdowns, and as of five months ago… killing.

Dodge. Counter. Parry. Strike. Slash, slash, slash, spinning slash, rising cut feint into a jumping down slash, roll, sweep kick, low cut, high cut, thrust, dodge the grab, dodge the punch, dodge left-

Nearly everyone in Santa Destroy older than eleven had a moment where they realized that the town they were in was a shithole, the people around them were getting meaner and nastier, and if they wanted to be anything besides an easy mark, they needed to mean and nasty enough to make one message very clear- _don't fuck with me._

That meant having a weapon- any weapon- and the knowledge to use it. The definition of a weapon varied on what you had. Some of the better off kids with drug dealer parents carried firearms. Others used knives and baseball bats. In a pinch, some took flat-head tacks, swished them in a used toilet, and taped them pointy-end up to their fists.

He'd been walking home from school early with his girlfriend Rina. School had let out early after two teachers got into a drunken brawl that devolved into a gunfight in the cafeteria, and after that many of the students had either decided to leave or to watch at a distance as Mr. Romerez and Mr. Valshedek exchanged gunfire, with Valshedek claiming Romerez' wife loved him better in bed, and Romerez accusing Valshedek of cheating on them both.

One of the many gangs had accosted them- Rina in particular- a bunch of senior and junior dropouts who called themselves Satan's whatevers who made a career out of robbery, rape, and running drugs for whatever gangsters used Santa Destroy as a stopover. They had wanted Rina.

Alex's own weapon of choice was a machete and a lot of resentment towards his mother's new boyfriend/abuser. He'd gone down after two punches, saw one of them pin the goth-haired beauty against a wall, and something inside him went…

_snap_

…and suddenly there was blood everywhere, the machete lodged in the chest of the last gang member that stood to fight, a fourth running away screaming and holding a stump where his left hand was.

Other students who observed the melee and previously wrote Alex off as a spineless wimp (among other less polite names) had recorded the event on their cellphones, and the next day at school, his reputation had improved for all the wrong reasons. Asshole teachers congratulated him for becoming a 'man'. Girls who ignored him made blatant passes at him.

But Rina, his dark witty angel, a source of sarcastic wit and comfort in this hell, was looking at him with fear.

Three dead bodies in the middle of the street. Hands slick with gore. Mother fumbling with a towel, cleaning him up as an officer blithely thanks him for saving them ammunition they would've wasted on thugs. Worst of all…

Kyle Baleiro, the crew cut, muscled asshole who slaps his mother and throws him into walls, calls him every horrible name in the book, told him if he ever fought back he'd kill mom, burned all the photos of dad, proudly serves on the Penalty Crew, and who called _fucking dibs on his girlfriend's virginity…_

Looked him in the eye, put his hands on his shoulders, and said "You're not a pussy anymore. I'm proud of you."

_Proud of you._

In public, he'd mentioned the event to his fellow career rapists, one of which reacted with pleasant surprise. "Holy shit, and here I thought you were some sort of prissy little bitch! I didn't think you had the balls!" exclaimed one when he saw the results of Alex losing his shit.

_Because if the idea of watching girls getting raped doesn't turn you on, then you're weak, and weakness meant you were a victim, and victims got raped and killed in this world, not necessarily in that order, and to murder and/or rape was to prove that you weren't a victim…_

Before Travis Touchdown's fame had made the city undergo some serious reconstruction, Body Slam Beach's waters were a cocktail of wastes both industrial and human. Walking through the surf was less healthy than skinny-dipping in a septic tank.

Kyle, the asshole who could look at the roster of past and present V.G. senshi and tell you the exact points they broke down during the penalty, _was proud of him,_ and that had made him feel like he'd gone snorkeling in the toxic waters of post-rebuild Santa Destroy.

In desperation, he'd banged on the door of the Crownless King, aware that nearly every assassin before that approached him was dead, and begged, katowing to him, to help him get whatever unholy thing was inside him under control… or to kill him.

And the jaded former number one assassin had closed the door, turned to walk away, until he told him of Kyle, who he was, that he had been proud of him, and that he was afraid of becoming _him._

That had begun a story of pain. Of learning to endure pain. Learning to channel it and the rage into your arms, use it as a weapon before it used you. Learning to use hate like venom before it poisoned you. Learning to strike to kill, again and again and again, each blow meant to take a life.

A viper's hiss in your posture, in your _style,_ so that people knew that to mess with you or yours was akin to putting a UAA contract on yourself. (An event that _had_ happened and the UAA honored- money was money, after all)

This was nothing new in the training regimens that UAA assassins used for what scant few pupils they did take on. Those who didn't cut it usually went home maimed or in body bags. To be taught by the Crownless King with weapons not explicitly designed to kill? An unthinkable mercy. Unthinkable patience. (The ki resistance training with Sylvia and rubber bullets not withstanding.)

The plain heather grey shirt and jeans weren't trendy or stylish, and for good reason- brands were as good a reason as any to get shot, stabbed, burned or beaten to death at school, and Santa Destroy High School was unique in how it dealt with the many, many deaths of students and alumni- a tasteless memorial page in the yearbook written by staff with a sense of humor so dark it put Vantablack to shame.

_'An heroed'_ for a suicide _. 'Forgot to duck'_ for a shooting victim _._ _'Isekai'd'_ for the anime fanboy who got hit by a truck. Technically, freshmen like him were off-limits for any of the higher classes to kill unless they did something stupid… but what counted for 'stupid' changed every day.

Dodge, counter, parry, slash, slash, jump back, jump back again-

The arena at the moment for Alexander was the backdoor's patio of the Townsend Mansion, extending onto the beach with its now cleaner waters, the even cleaner swimming pool, the Greco-roman white pillars fencing them in, fountains in the near distance spraying upward-

_not unlike the arterial blood of the former resident_

-and splashing down again.

In front of the pool, in bikinis so skimpy they might as well have been drawn on, were two beautiful women- both skilled in the art of destroying lives, with only the means varying between them.

Shinobu Jacobs, 21, a lithe, stark-white haired katana-wielding panther of an African-American ninja, soaked in tanning oil and posing much more suggestively than her sensei had asked, watched the spectacle with feigned disinterest. Despite her beautiful appearance, she had trained under Travis, by herself, against numerous opponents, and the result was something as deadly as she was sexy.

The only thing that might have been considered odd about her body was a mechanical hand where her right used to be, and even then that was a sign of strength. A second chance taken, learning to take what most would consider a crippling injury, have the humility to turn to another for help, and be all the stronger for it.

The truth was the kid was doing _better._ There were glaring weaknesses he needed to learn to cover, missed opportunities Travis left wide open that she had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out, points that if Travis had been anywhere near as serious as he normally was on the job the boy would be unconscious or dead… but there were positive surprises, like when he evaded feints that had taken others down, or turned aside blows that should have driven him to his knees.

Across from her, drinking something sweet and alcoholic, was Sylvia Christel, 27 year old French born bombshell- Babe to Travis, Ma'am to Shinobu, or Bitch/Mistress depending on what she, Shinobu, and Travis were in the mood for. It had been a spur of the moment idea on Sylvia's part, and through a lot of communication, they'd discovered that both life and the bed were big enough for all three.

Sylvia was an entirely different breed of deadly, the kind you did not approach unbidden unless you wanted to die horribly. A Penalty Crew member had once slapped her ass during a rather tense negotiation with the Jahana Group. After sternly telling Travis and Shinobu not to kill him, she made some calls and asked some favors, all in the same cute little voice she'd suggested playful activities when her other two life partners were feeling frisky and had plenty of fluids.

They'd found what was left of him, nude and kneeling in the street, charred beyond recognition. Security cameras showed the tale of him calmly purchasing several gas cans full of fuel from a nearby station, walking into the street, stripping nude before dousing himself, and setting himself on fire.

Sylvia had _itches_ , and only trusted two people in her life to scratch them just hard enough. Sometimes she liked to play with someone, and sometimes she liked to be played with. The knowledge of when, what, and where was Travis' and Shinobu's alone. Anyone else died.

It was a testament to Alex's morality (and ability to pick up on subtle clues, such as stories about barbequed career rapists) that he had treated both with respect. Both women knew that however respectful a boy was, though, he was still a boy, with a boy's weaknesses. Part of Travis' training for him was to filter out distractions. He had to learn to focus only on threats and filter out any other 'noise', be it pain, hunger, fatigue… or…

"Shinobu, could you put a little more oil on me? I don't want to burn before tomorrow night." Sylvia's request was audible enough to be heard over the din of battle.

…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shinobu move over to Sylvia, and that was all the attention he paid before returning to his attack and defense.

"Oh, right… _tomorrow."_ Deliberate emphasis on that word. "You got the sugar-free whipped cream, right? And the batteries?" she said loudly.

_Focus. Ignore._ To let your base instincts and desires control you was to be something animalistic, and choosing to indulge them regardless of another's wishes led to a path where you were something less than animal, far less than human. A path where people called you Kyle Baleiro. Travis had taught him to command his instincts, redirect the flow of focus.

(Then again, Travis had also taught him decapitating a friend's killers was a perfectly acceptable means of both grieving and paying respects to the fallen.)

"Oh but of course! Turnabout is only fair play, and I expect no mercy from you." Sylvia openly gave a hum of approval as Shinobu did something that didn't require immediate attention-

-unlike the katana that barely missed his head, he rushed forward with a thrust, and this time Travis' face had a look of surprise for just a moment, the first during their exercises where he didn't anticipate his every move-

"But I can't help but think you seemed to be _enjoying_ yourself last time, Shinobu. If I was in your position, I would have been so embarrassed I would have never been able to look- _mmmmm!_ \- myself in the mirror! Ah- ah yes, right there, harder… you are _really_ getting good at this, you know? I thought you would have hard feelings after what we did last time!"

He jumped back to avoid a downswing. He had eyes for one girl, and one girl alone- a goth anime freak who made this shitty town a little less shitty- and he knew the three played "games" with each other, but holy baby Jesus on a pogo stick, what did these people _do to each other?_

"Oh I was enjoying myself, Ms. Sylvia. You heard me beg for more. And I bet you did all those things especially so I would know just what to do to _you._ "

"Naturally! Do you promise to be gentle?" asked Sylvia coyly and loudly.

"Of course not! Once Travis has had his turn, I'm not stopping until you tap out or black out. We need to make sure you can still take it as well as dish it out!" Shinobu eagerly replied.

"Ooooh… that feels nice. I'm looking forward to that. But if I do pass out, please don't stop- you give me such happy dreams…"

There was silence as Alex shuffled back, took a breath, resumed the attack, skidded backwards as Travis' powerful counterstrike shoved him back, then finally, his mentor eased off his fighting stance.

"Enough." There was a tone of finality in his voice, one Alex knew to obey.

"Getting better, little man. I didn't even land any solid hits. You've still got a long ways to go, but I'm glad to see you're taking this seriously."

With effort that angered his burning muscles, Alex bowed. "Thank you, sensei."

"Oh, _come on!_ " shouted an exasperated Sylvia. "Are you dead inside? Have your balls dropped yet? We did everything short of make love in the pool, and you acted like you didn't even notice!"

Carefully and quickly, Alex formulated a response. "I've got candy of my own, ma'am. And it's rude to stare at a show that's not yours. I've heard stories about people who didn't learn to keep their hands to themselves."

Sylvia gave a quiet hmm. "Clever boy. You might actually live through this."

"If he actually picks up the pace." Shinobu said. "You still have gaps, you hesitate so much it makes me want to scream, and Master's still holding back on you. In the real world, it's rarely one on one, and there's no time-outs for a cracked rib or concussion." They walked inside, the cool air conditioning a relief from the sweltering May heat. "You need to step it up once school ends for the summer- SD High has a rule about the Freshmen, not killing them unless they stick their nose where it doesn't belong, but next year, you'll-"

"And in up and coming news, we have word that the next _Variable Geo_ tournament will be held exclusively on the luxury cruise ship _S.S. Loviatar._ Reservations are of course limited, but of course the match will be broadcast live and uncut!" The news caster on TV, left running when training began, had a male redhead with unnaturally white teeth and flawless skin get their attention.

_Like a shark grin when it smells blood in the water_

"We've also received word that despite rumors to the contrary, runner-ups from the last tournament will be in attendance, including the now infamous Ms. Kaori Yanase, who went through a devastating penalty round! I'm not sure about you, but I wouldn't want to show my face in public after this..."

The newscast cut to the final moments of a match- Kaori, a glasses wearing Tae-Kwon-Do artist with long purple hair and a striped purple-and-white uniform, was obviously injured and tired, but doggedly tried to fend off her opponent, Reimi Jahana, a silver-haired cruel angel in black attire with a white vest, who punished weary strikes with precise blows again and again, until finally Kaori fell and did not rise, holding her struck stomach in pain.

A sick, horrible feeling invaded Alex's gut as he recalled the awfulness Kyle so gleefully talked about, and with mounting horror he realized the camera was _not_ going to cut away as the bell rang, Reimi rose her fist in victory, and walked off the stage as several men in black suits walked on as they fumbled with their belts.

Even from the angle he saw two things in the fallen girl's face he'd seen in his mother's- pain, fear… and resignation.

"Turn… turn it off please." He said shakily, looking away, sickened by the sounds of perverse cheering.

"Yes." agreed Sylvia, without any hint of teasing or coyness, making quick strides over to the remote. There was a merciful click, ending the perverse cheers of the crowd, and a heavy silence filled the room.

There were games those three played, he knew. Games that involved safe words, precautions, limits, sanity in the throes of passion. The details he didn't know, didn't need to know. But there was a line, Travis had told him, between what was kinky and what was fucking sick and wrong.

He looked to Shinobu. Revulsion and pity, still not looking at the TV. Sylvia? Discomfort, a fracture in the mask of calm, collected beauty. In Travis' face…

Cold fury.

"Your mom's bastard boyfriend ever talk to you about following in his footsteps?" Travis snapped after the moment had passed. There was no trace of the condescending master or even a hint of pride now, there was a tone… a tone that some instinct told Alex had preceded many messy, violent deaths.

"Yeah." He knew he should say 'yes, sensei', but he was trying to fight back the urge to vomit- one of the men that had approached that poor girl he had recognized very clearly.

That same man had gleefully recounted the tale of the exact moment he saw tears form in her eyes, despite- or maybe because of- both Alex and his mother's discomfort.

"And what'd you say?" Travis asked again, hard edge in his voice. "I'll know if you're lying." And he turned to look him in the eyes, staring over his shades, nailing him to the spot.

Fine. The truth then.

"I told him to go fuck himself with an axe." Alex responded. "Knocked me out for that. Stayed home from school until the swelling went down."

Travis assessed him for a minute. "I'm glad to hear that." He said finally. "One less person I have to kill. He's on the UAA's ranks, you know. Calls himself 'Last True Alpha'. Bastard's got skill with a beam katana… he might just want to challenge me."

"Let me know when you fight him." Alex said. "I want to eat Mexican beforehand, so I can make sure that fucker is buried in a steaming pile of-"

" _Language_." Travis cut in sharply. "There are ladies here. And besides, how would anyone know the difference? But I get you. I get you." He headed to the fridge, tossed him a cola, and Shinobu and Sylvia a beer apiece. "Any requests on how I kill him?"

Alex took a deep drink, and thought for a moment. "I just want him _gone_."

…

He'd left after that, thanking his sensei for the training and the soda, which was helping with the nausea. Nearly every male, student or teacher, would drop everything when a Variable Geo match went underway, and it was never about the fight unless you were taking bets.

It was when he heard the commentary from his former gym teacher (now thankfully deceased from a drug overdose) about how the defeated had reacted to the penalty that he realized there were people that really _did_ need to die. Preferably while screaming.

Before Kyle had invaded their lives like some parasitic worm, there had been Stone Cross, his father, a man some called a hardass and others called "the last good man in Santa Destroy". He'd tried his best to shield Alex from the horrors of the world, and when Alex had found out the awful truth regardless at ten, he had told him The Rule.

"If you want to make the world better, then _be_ better."

It sounded so noble, so righteous. To take up the cross and carry it regardless of the stones hurled at you, regardless of what others said, to be the light of the world.

Those sentiments had not prevented him from dying in a 'car crash'.

A car crash that happened at a red light, with no other vehicles around. That was so intense it sent shrapnel- plastic, metal and bone- flying and embedded in the walls of the nearby buildings, left a smoking hole that was still there, where he had died. An explosive, single-car crash at 0 mph that was immediately ruled driver error.

Tomorrow there would be no training, at least not under Travis- he would work under the infamous Dr. Naomi, helping her assemble beam katanas and other things- things that Dr. Naomi warned if he talked about, they'd never find his body.

Most of his work went toward helping to pay off a debt his master accrued for the infamous "Glastonbury" incident… he wasn't one for duels, but that had been _something_ to see. A giant mech battle downtown between an Otaku and Charlie MacDonald, the local football legend of Destroy University. That had been before dad had died, and had marked the only time he heard his father say "what in the actual _fuck_ " about a situation.

Compounding the craziness was Naomi verifying that Travis' reaction to the Santa Death Parade- MacDonald's own mecha- was something he'd planned for _before_ hearing the terms of the duel. Travis had commissioned a giant robot based off his favorite anime- with special attacks activated by yelling out the names of the heroines, no less- and put it into storage _just in case_ his opponent ever choose a mecha as their weapon.

Naomi did have incentives for him besides doing his part to pay back the oversized humanoid robot. The time was coming when he would be expected to learn how to use a beam katana all his own, and Naomi had him practice with test models- partly so she could see how well they cut, how they fared against other beam models, and partly so he could learn how to balance himself, strike properly, get a feel for how long the battery life would last. Naomi had hinted she might give him an older model to get started, but that was a boon unlike any other- beam katanas weren't _exorbitant,_ but they were out of his price range- jobs were scarce in Santa Destroy unless you wanted to work a fast food counter or replace the seventh gas station clerk to get killed during a robbery, and as sick as it was, a beam katana would open up his employment opportunities considerably.

There was always someone who someone else needed dead, and many for reasons that by themselves justified the deed. Getting paid was a bonus.

And if, by some chance, Kyle had not challenged Travis and was subsequently cut into pieces… he'd respectfully ask Sylvia to pull some strings. Then he and the old man would have it out for good.

He wasn't sure if he would survive, but he'd practice sweeping, rising cuts aimed at the groin. If nothing else before he fell, he would ensure that the asshole was both unfit to hurt his mother or be a Penalty Crew member.

And if he did kill him, he'd hold off on the final blow just long enough to film the bastard begging for him to end it all. He heard the senshi got all sorts of fanmail, most of it horrible taunts or obscene proposals… maybe they'd appreciate knowing that, just for once, the tables were turned…

He realized he was finally home- at one of the suburban cookie-cutter houses that sprung up in the wake of the Crownless King's glory. Before dad had died, the house was among the warmer ones of the neighborhood, kept in shape by three sets of loving hands. It radiated warmth and hope in the middle of what felt like a war zone.

Now, the lawn was still mowed and the windows were still clean, enforced by the back of a hand or the crack of a belt, but the house was a tomb of its former self. There were rare moments when he and mom were alone, and they could hug or just talk, but the fragile peace could be broken at any given moment by Kyle barging in at the worst moment, just like he had when dad died…

His mother, Grace, met him at the door. She was beautiful for 40, even with a fading black eye earned by begging Kyle to leave him alone after Alex’s pointed response to Kyle's offer for "on the job training" with the penalty crew. Long blonde hair, a slender frame, and a resilience in the face of the awfulness of life that made Alex love her all the more. She dressed modestly at Kyle's behest- she was his, he had said, and his alone, so she wore a long sleeve shirt and jeans, which helpfully covered the bruises.

She smiled, even though Alex wished she wouldn't, because he knew just how much that cost her. "Welcome home." and the tiredness in her voice made him wince. "How was training?"

"He says I'm getting better." Alex said succinctly. She did not need to know the details about said training, about how focus training involved two bisexual women openly discussing their next romp, or training his reflexes, pain tolerance, and ki resistance with Sylvia and a SMG loaded with rubber bullets.

"Kyle won't be home tonight. He has some things he has to get ready for the… tournament." Her voice trailed off uncomfortably.

The way of the world, his father had said- your brief comfort came at someone else's expense. He sat on the couch, staring at the TV, thankfully tuned to the weather so he could disassociate for a moment.

Immediately there arose the idea of waiting until Kyle came home drunk, stumbled through the door, and then just slashing his throat with the sharpest knife he could find. That was a death mark for both of them. Kyle had managed to get control of her accounts, and to kill a Penalty Crew member was to earn a death mark from the Jahana group.

He didn't have the money for a UAA contract, and even if he did, the UAA and the Jahana Group had an understanding that as long as they were actively employed, members of the VG tournament, especially the Penalty Crew, were off limits for hit contracts. Likewise, the Jahana Group understood that if their members started a fight with a UAA assassin or their family, all bets were off.

That left either waiting for Travis to take him down, or trying to convince Sylvia to take on a 14-year old assassin and letting him duel Kyle.

The news suddenly got his attention. "…police say the message was left at the Jahana Group's U.S. headquarters, saying 'The time for your accounting is coming soon. You will answer for all your atrocities, and those who do not renounce evil will burn with it.' The letter was signed by the terrorist group _Verum-I,_ and authorities are still offering a reward for-"

Or maybe…

He'd heard of the _Verum-i._ People called them killjoys, terrorists, fundamentalists. They openly hated both the UAA and the V.G. tournaments, but saved their more aggressive operations for members of the Jahana Group. Despite constant efforts, here and there you could see marks of the _Verum-i_ not yet scrubbed away- a red candle with a white flame, spray-painted alongside other gang tags. A red candle, left lit by the bodies of dead Penalty Crew members and acts of sabotage, a symbol of their stated goal: To bring light to the darkness.

Joining the _Verum-i-_ the VI for short-anywhere else was putting it all on the line for the sake of an ideal that very few supported and many violently opposed- just the accusation of being VI friendly could mean the end of careers and lives. Sometimes the Jahana group was satisfied with grinding you into absolute poverty and letting hunger or sickness deal with you. Other times, you had an accident. One that made you look stupid, reckless, and left no doubt that yours had not been a quick death.

_But you don't_ need _to join them._ A voice hisses in his mind.

_You just need to tell them about Kyle. "Hey I heard you liked killing rapists, how'd you like to kill one nasty sonofabitch who has had it coming for years?"_

Let them know his schedule, his commute, when he was most likely drunk, and then leave a door unlocked. Pretend not to hear anything until someone left. Lock the door again. Try not to smile too much during the slipshod questioning by Santa Destroy’s finest…

"…do you want mac n' cheese for dinner, or do you need something more?" Grace asked, and he could tell she was exhausted…

"Mac's fine. You _sit._ I can handle this." He offered. There were days where she would insist she was fine, despite a new busted lip or new bruise, and keep going. Today was not one of those days, and she sank hard into a chair, staring at a wall blankly.

"I'm tired, honey." she said with a weariness that hurt him. "I'm just… I don't know what the hell to do. I'm sorry. I failed you, baby. I…" she looked to him. "I'm trying to be strong, you know, but if I ever get to the point I just… can't anymore, you can understand, right? Could you forgive me?"

He heard himself say yes, and she rested her head on the table, too tired to even cry anymore.

It was then that Alex decided tomorrow, consequences be damned, he would find a way to contact the VI.

…

_"Candidate #1 shows growing potential for ki and mana related physical abilities, making him a prime choice for a troubleshooter or bodyguard. Contacts remark that this candidate's potential resembles past instances where the 'Dark Sword' had awakened in a person. Relations with Jahana-sponsored assassin and Penalty Crew member Kyle Baleiro notably hostile- recommend against using him as direct induction method."_

_"Contacts note that full transformation into a wielder of the 'Dark Sword'- which is capable of using a sort of negative energy to debilitate and kill targets, requires an event of heightened emotional duress, especially loss and antagonism. 'Dark Knights' experience a sort of post-transformation combination of euphoria and guilt- Contacts suggest this would be the prime time to make an offer of employment."_

_"Preparations for trigger event under way. Might be good PR as well."_

-Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #1/6, Alexander Cross. Recommendation: Enforcer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Sylvia and Shinobu just struck me as the kind of bat-crap crazy thing Travis might do if he actually took an apprentice.
> 
> If this chapter disturbed you, don't worry! It gets worse!
> 
> Wait...


	3. Rina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having lived in Santa Destroy all her life, Rina Warrens is aware of how awful the world can be. She seeks solace in her family, her boyfriend, her faith and her hobbies, but scars from the past are visible at every turn, and she finds evil knocking at her door...

RINA

SANTA DESTROY, CALIFORNIA

SANTA DESTROY HIGH SCHOOL,

COUNSELOR'S OFFICE

1:34 P.M.

She'd never claimed to be a bastion of morality or virtue. She'd said and done things that still made her feel guilty, and left things undone and unsaid that made her feel worse.

Her parents barely tolerated her hobbies only because there were so much worse things to aspire to in Santa Destroy- that and because skimpy anime outfits be damned, it was nice having a seamstress in the family. They'd rather she spend more time in prayer than watching anime or practicing _bojutsu,_ or even preferred her reading the family old texts they had planned to show her at sixteen,because a girl in a cute homemade outfit practicing with a bo staff raised the wrong kind of questions.

A provocative look wasn't uncommon among the young girls of Santa Destroy. Promiscuity was high. Formal sex education, if you got any, involved a very clinical pamphlet, a free condom, and the address for an STD website. What was uncommon was the goth hairstyle she wore- dark brown hair dyed black and put in dual pigtails, combined with her switching to a different anime styled outfit every other day - at least, the ones that didn't leave her parents in fits. She still wanted to flaunt the ones she'd made for _Pure White Lover Bizarre Jelly._

Maybe for Alex. In private.

She didn't think those questions would get to her- there was a certain age range they wanted for senshi, and she had never used her 'family trade' in public. Not even when the alternative was awful- thank God that Alex had gone beast mode that day. Her bo staff training was more to keep lean and fit- making would-be muggers and rapists second guess themselves was a bonus.

There was more to the bo staff than just physical prowess, as well. The old texts she studied with her older brother spoke of many things, There was a way to draw on one's latent magic in such a way as to not expend _mana_ , the fuel of magic, but to still enhance the power of a staff that had been specially treated to act as a conduit, allowing for both much more power and control than her stature would suggest.

What this meant in practice was that she could swing her bo at a 30-something drunken asshole who wanted to take her on a date and wouldn't take no as an answer, and instead of mild bruising and irritation, the asshole got a cracked skull and concussion. There had been others like that, taught much the same lesson. The only downside was that she hadn't heard of it before the incident with the gang members, and that her parents threw an apoplectic fit.

(Her older brother, while upset at a use of magic in public, had eloquently voiced the counter-argument she wasn't able to make: "So what the hell is she supposed to do then? Lay there and take it?")

She'd worried it would upset Alex, a worry when he told her in no uncertain terms that he found her hot before, and the idea of her knocking an asshole unconscious was a major turn-on.

Today they'd called her down to the counselor's office today during math class- no big deal, Mrs. Mallon was drunk again and bemoaning the fact her husband couldn't keep it up in bed, and so she had time to copy answers from the local dealer who got his hands on the standardized test answer key. She'd been down there before with the previous counselor, most recently for mandatory grief counseling after… _that…_ which consisted of two minutes of answering questions that boiled down to "are you going to kill yourself on campus?"

Mrs. Garret, curly blonde hair, 51, slightly pudgy with horn-rimmed glasses and a short, cleavage-accenting pink and blue dress that just screamed "desperate cougar", had met her at the door along with a balding but fairly handsome man in a business suit who shook her hand. For a moment, she thought she'd earned a scholarship somehow.

"I'm Renon Murphy with the Jahana Group's U.S. division, nice to meet you."

Oh fuck. The _Jahana Group._

"We've heard about you from some of our scouts-"

Oh _fuck,_ they'd been watching her.

"-and we think that you might do well in our training program for future senshi-"

_OH FUCK, THEY WERE SCOUTING HER FOR THE V.G._

Rina, a 14-year old dark haired goth girl (or goddess, if you asked Alex) who favored lolita-style haircuts and proudly wore clothes she made herself, was not the most moral or ethical person. Sure, she tried to help when she could- blame it on having religious parents- volunteering at the soup kitchen, helping out in her church.

No, she didn't like doing any of the awful mean, pointlessly cruel things girls her age normally did- blame that on the idealistic anime she watched. She wasn't even particularly prudish- More than once she and Alex had found an unused classroom, and while they hadn't gone beyond mutual groping and kissing, she'd been _very_ open about what she wanted done to her once they could shack up somewhere safe, and he had been _very_ attentive, asking for details…

"NO. NO. NO." she said loudly, cutting off Renon. "NO, FUCK NO."

That did not mean she had no standards. She was still a virgin- the idea of Alex doing her laundry list of perverted fun to her when the time was right was scary but thrilling, because he respected her when she said 'stop' and 'go' (and knew just how to nibble on her ear). The idea of being a senshi nauseated and horrified her.

Her parents forbade any materials regarding either tournament in their household, especially the Variable Geo one. Something about looking into the abyss, and it looking back at you. Out of curiosity, during junior high, she'd snuck in amongst a crowd of boys and had watched a match, just to see what was so bad about it.

She did that once.

Just once.

After she finished throwing up, she resolved to never, ever have any more staring contests with the abyss. She and her parents disagreed on a lot of things, but now she understood with horrifying clarity _why_ the forbidden was such.

She could still remember the girl crying in her dreams.

"Listen, listen, Rina, just hear me out okay?" Renon tried to sound calming. "I know it _looks_ bad, but-"

It did not _look_ bad. It was not simply _bad_ , bad was getting an F on a project because the teacher threw it away, bad was trying the rancid cafeteria food, bad was some floozy thinking you were trying to steal her 8th boyfriend away from her. The tournament was fucking horrible and evil, unbidden memories of the girl she once called her 'big sister' came to her-

"-there may be a _softcore_ division in a year, and by that time you could-"

Oh dear Jesus. Her parents had warned her that the world had turned depraved. Warned her that the last few vestiges of morality were being neatly discarded, that very soon there would be no rules, no regulations, just rape and murder, murder and rape. She'd thought it was end of the world fantasy, back then.

Now here they were. A man was asking her to train for a tournament where she would be raped if she lost- no, there was no _if._ It would happen, she wasn't the kind of person who could go that many rounds with trained, desperate martial artists, and she had the sickening feeling this asshole _knew_ that, and her counselor was nodding along like this was talking about what college she wanted to attend…

"-really, I understand your hesitation, but you have the looks, you could make your own uniform, we could find a restaurant to sponsor you, and you certainly have the potential-"

Straight out of the sermons she heard at the youth group she got dragged to every other Sunday. _The corruptor seeks to taint you, promising easy lives in exchange for your soul, promising a way out of a bad situation, anything to get you into the trap…_

"-and I realize this is hardly a usual question, but it may affect your marketability… are you still a virgin?"

She stared at him. Then at Mrs. Garret. Both were acting as if they were discussing grades.

"Are… are you fuckin' kidding me?" she choked out. "Are you two fucking kidding me? You want me to sign up for some summer camp to teach me how to get the shit beat out of me so some scumbags can… can…" something caught in her throat, made it hard to breathe…

The look of being taken aback on their faces told her that they weren't. "Miss Warrens," her counselor began, "I don't know what you've heard, but-"

"Heard? _Heard?!_ I've _seen_ what they-"

She had seen it once.

She had heard about it twice.

Once on TV. The next…

A wave of nausea hit her as she stood.

"Look, I've heard about… Patricia, right?" Renon began in a sickeningly soothing voice. "I know why she signed up, and I'm sorry she reacted the way she did, but she knew the rules-"

She turned and gave the bastard a look that made him jerk, bringing to bear as close a facsimile she could manage of the death promise that had been in Alex's eyes before he'd gone on a rampage…

Her voice came to her, and it was a knife made of glacial ice that made her rasp.

"Don't talk to me about your _God-damned_ rules, and _don't you dare say her name._ "

She slammed the door behind her. Alex would be training today, so there was no point in waiting for him, and she'd had enough school for today.

Possibly a lifetime.

…

Her bo staff in hand, the gangs and assholes of Santa Destroy were less willing to screw around with someone who left unwanted suitors unconscious and injured in her wake. Of all the times to _not_ have something to vent her fury on…

As she marched home, there was nothing to distract her from her thoughts.

There had been a girl next door when she was younger, Patricia Maywells, whose father had stopped chemo so his wife and daughter wouldn't go into poverty. Patricia was a strong, proud woman with flowing brown hair, an angel's face, and a right hook that put multiple muggers into a coma, a combination of boxing and karate training with her father since she was six. She had helped during a church charity demolition of some old property by smashing down the dilapidated walls with her bare fists and feet. She had preached against the evils of Variable Geo, what it could do to you even if you were just watching.

_"We're better than this! We have to be better than this!"_

She had babysat Rina so many times when her parents and big brother were busy, played board games with her and let her win, watched her favorite animes over and over. When a dirty old man had started following Rina home from school, Patricia had knocked him out in one strike. She was her big sister, her guardian angel, righteous and untouchable. She’d promised to teach her how to use Ki when she was older.

_"It's not wrong to fight back to protect people you care about."_

Then her mom got sick, and kept getting worse. The church took up a donation to help with the hospital bills, and somehow her condition kept stabilizing, then declining worse than before. The doctors weren't sure what was wrong with her, only that her heart, kidneys, and lungs were all failing at once. She would need more extensive therapy and treatments, well out of the budget of any of the church members. They had prayed for a miracle. Her parents had even tried their white magic to no avail; she would rally, then get even sicker.

_"Rina… you've been the best little sister I ever wanted. Please understand what I'm about to do."_

Those were her last words to her before she disappeared.

By the time she had heard Patricia had gotten sponsorship from a maid café in Santa Destroy's downtown, it was too late to talk her out of it, cheer, or pray.

She had made it three rounds, suffered a knee injury in the third that she didn't recover from, and fell in the fourth. The details of the fight were scant beyond that, but the fight wasn't what the boys in her school were talking about.

Rina wondered, all this time, why the losers of these fights didn't fight back. It was then she learned the arena was equipped with ki-suppressors and the Penalty Crew with a wide array of chemicals that made your body unresponsive while still allowing you to feel everything.

The boys had talked for hours about how she tried to fight. How she went down, how they held her down. About what they'd done. How she had cried. How she had begged for them to stop.

How she had _screamed._

The janitor had found Rina around four that afternoon after missing the rest of her classes, hugging her knees to her chest inside one of the girl's room stalls, hyperventilating and dry heaving. He had brusquely told her to go home with all the sympathy of a particularly rugged brick wall.

It was that evening she'd heard that Patricia's mother had committed suicide. They found her in her favorite chair, TV tuned to the station that had broadcast the match, empty vial of pain medication pills in her hand. They had buried her by the time Patricia was able to get home, having had to hitchhike back over two week's time.

All or nothing.

_All for nothing_.

She had come into the church one Sunday, unwashed and hair unkempt, in wrinkled clothes and with dead hollow eyes.

And a group of older women Rina silently dubbed "The Coven of Cunts" began to converse about Patricia's loss. Loudly.

She and Rina locked eyes, and Rina wanted to say something over the all-too loud whispers of the withered old hags, but nothing seemed appropriate.

_Are you okay?_ She knew, in graphic detail, the many reasons that she was not.

_Do you wanna talk?_ What was there to talk about? The fights? Hearing the losers pay the price? Or falling and not being able to get up, and realizing what was about to happen?

She wanted to say 'you're still a hero to me', 'I'm sorry'; hug her, say or do _something, anything,_ when Mrs. Gurchen, a wretched, wispy-white haired bitch of a 21st century Pharisee if ever there was one, decided to try her hand at what passed for stand-up in hell...

"Did one of them at least give you dinner and a movie afterward?" she'd asked, her tone sickeningly cloying like poisonous honey.

And the hags in her little coven of gossip…

_LAUGHED._

Awful, unabashed giggling and cackling had ensued, because in the Sorority of The Horrible Old Women With Rusty Hearts and Sandpaper Cunts, there's nothing funnier than mocking someone who has been through an experience no one should have to go through as punishment for desperately trying to prevent their mother from dying.

She looked at Patricia and saw what was left of her guardian angel/big sister die in those big brown eyes. The last lights being turned out.

Rina tried to speak, but her throat contracted. No rebuke for the hags came. No comforting verses bubbled forth.

Patricia barreled back out the doors, not even slowing down as the other members of the congregation called out to her. The Coven of Cunts tittered all the while.

They found her at her mother's grave with slit wrists, too far gone to be saved. An angel who had her wings ripped out of her, hurled to the unforgiving earth to die after seventeen years of trying to do the right thing.

Gurchen and her little group of senior bitches were somehow surprised when the pastor called them out on their callous behavior the next Sunday, called them just as crooked and depraved as any of the other monsters that had hurt her, and when they had refused to go when told to leave, her father, brother, and many other members of the congregation had none-too-gently helped them out the door, her brother putting into words what the rest were too polite to say: "Get the fuck out and stay out, you shriveled cunts!"

That was as much justice as they were going to get.

The woman who had been protector and playmate came to her and the church she served in her darkest hours, when all other light had been snuffed out, had gotten nothing but silence and spit in her face, and had decided she may as well lay down and die next to her mother, for convenience's sake.

Patricia always was considerate of other people's time.

Rina stopped in front of the old house where they'd lived, a white paneled two story home with a withered garden and lawn overgrown with weeds. Church members tried to keep it maintained, there was still a "For Sale" sign in front, but only so rarely did anyone come here to even look. Santa Destroy was not the place to raise a family unless you had no other option, and especially not here.

Some of the more spiritually inclined girls said you could hear her mother crying at night as she watched her daughter pay a horrible price. Rina did not want to test that theory.

How many times had they had water gun fights in the backyard, or played games in her bedroom, or made pizza together… how many times… why couldn't she say…

"I don't know why you people keep crying over her." Came a voice like acid, making her skin crawl.

Rina felt her jaw clench as she turned to face Mrs. Gurchen, hair of silver and heart of rust, smiling that little withered smirk that distorted a face worn threadbare from years of grimacing and turning her nose up at others.

The woman- if you could call her that- had the talent of sucking the warmth and light out of the room, and why she didn't catch on fire while she was at church was beyond Rina. Her father had been there in the hospital when Mr. Gurchen had been told his disease was terminal, and he had three days at best left. The henpecked husband had only three words in response:

"Oh, _thank God._ "

He had requested painkillers and died smiling.

Rina gave her a glare. "She was more than you'll ever be. She did what she did because she was desperate-"

"Oh, _yes._ " nodded Gurchen. "I bet she was. Not desperate for _money_ , of course, but you knew that now didn't you? Too bad her eyes were bigger than her stomach… or other parts. Oh well, she got what was coming to her, now didn't she?"

Rina's voice failed her as disgust flooded her.

"At least maybe she and her mother can practice down there together. You _know_ what happens to suicides, right?" she mockingly patted Rina's cheek. "Don't worry… the way your church is headed, you'll _all_ be together again very soon."

She had no good rebuke. No epic comeback. The crone began to waddle off, humming _Onward Christian Soldiers,_ happily going off on her holy mission to tell children in broken homes that their parents divorced because they were too disobedient, or rape victims they deserved it because of what they wore…

And then she remembered something Patricia had taught her, about actions speaking louder than words…

"Hey, BITCH."

Gurchen turned.

"Ye-" **Crunch.**

Adrenaline and fury slowed down time enough for her to watch as her magic-boosted staff literally wiped the sneer off her face. She knew from the noise she'd broken her staff, and that would mean coming up with a story that wasn't a well-deserved bludgeoning about how it broke.

As Gurchen flopped over onto the grass, she examined the suspiciously non-existent damage on her staff. It occurred to her that maybe that extra-satisfying crunch hadn't been wood…

"HAH HAW!" squawked the fallen Gurchen. "HOO ROKE HAH HAW! HOO UHKING BIH! HOO UHKING HOO-ID BIH!"

Her dentures hung out of her mouth, broken and bloody, a look of rage mixed with surprise at this turn of event. She tried to rise to her feet, fell over again and again, incoherent cursing mixed with mangled scriptures, and that was when Rina decided it was time to head home.

She ran the rest of the way, a spring in her step, slightly afraid but feeling she'd done a service to the world at large.

…

"Let me get this straight." Her father was sitting at the dinner table, head in his hands.

Eric Warrens, thinning black hand and chiseled face, muscular build and curved nose, shook his head as he processed what he'd heard from an apathetic officer who had laughed when they'd asked if she'd need to come down to the station.

"You were scouted by those… _monsters_ who saw you take down those muggers _,_ you ran away from school, and then you broke Mrs. Gurchen's jaw with your staff?" He took a breath. "What the hell did we teach you to make you think that was okay?"

"You told me that Mrs. Gurchen needed to learn to shut her mouth, and mom-" she indicated the short, black-haired model of a saintly mother sitting to her father's left, glaring at her sternly, "-told me she wished she had slapped Gurchen's mouth off her face back then. Oh, and Brian said he wanted to kick her in the cunt repeatedly with steel-toed boots, but I decided not to do that."

"Oh, how generous." Her father replied sarcastically. "Tell me, what brought about that act of restraint and benevolence?"

"I was wearing sandals."

Brian, cleaning his guns in the other room, laughed uproariously. Her mother tried to stifle a laugh, mostly succeeding. Her father made blew through his lips derisively, but his lips twitched.

"She made jokes about her. Said she wanted… what happened. That she deserved it, that she was in hell…"

Her mother's smirk turned to fury, and she reached across the table to grab her hand painfully… and yet it was reassuring.

"You know those things aren't true." She stated that as fact. "You know that right? You know that bitch will say anything and everything if she thinks she can hurt someone."

"Yeah. I do." Said Rina. "So maybe once she gets her mouth wired into place she'll watch it more often."

"You know what? I'm not going to say she didn't have it coming." Her father said. "Forget her, okay? I want you to think about Patricia, all right? To be perfectly honest, I really don't give a damn if you pummeled that bitch into a fine paste… but honey… people are watching. They're always looking for girls that look good and can fight."

She started to interject she was 14, but today she had learned that the way things were headed, that wouldn't be a deal-breaker.

"You need to be careful. More careful now than ever. If anyone comes after you, a mugger, whatever, just _run._ Don't fight back if you can run or… or even let that Alex boy handle it! I don't want…" he took a breath.

"No matter what anyone says, Patricia did. Not. Deserve. That. And neither do you. She wouldn't want you to go through what she did. If not for me… do it for her."

The air was heavy in the kitchen as they spoke.

"I think it's time we taught her **Aero.** If worse does come to worse, she needs more than a stick." Her mother spoke.

"Honey-" her father started.

"We already let Brian learn the blessing for his bullets." Her mother countered. Brian was a crack-shot with both a pistol and an AR-15, simple weapons compared to what you might see on a UAA assassin, perhaps, but he had learned to put what was known as the ' _ardenti peccatum_ ' enchantment on his bullets- 'burning sin'. A bullet with his aim was normally a crippling injury or death for most people, and a moderate injury for those who'd learned ki resistance, but the worse of a person you were, the more the burning sin enchantment hurt, like a radiation burn.

He'd shot a home invader once, a single glock round to the center of the head. They'd learned later from one of the less than absolutely apathetic officers that the invader was a child molester, which explained why the shot had reduced his head to fine ash. More than once he'd mentioned he'd like to test it out on the assholes who hurt Patricia. Preferably aimed at one particular part of the body so they could appreciate the full effect of certain prized attributes turning into lifeless ash.

The "Jesus says FUCK YOU" he painted on the shells with a micro-brush wasn't part of the enchantment, but to each their own.

"All right." Her father said, standing. "Let's go down to the basement. Time to learn how to blow people away…"

…

It took a few minutes for the dizziness that came with learning a new spell to fade- taking new magic into yourself gave you a glimpse of something… a pattern as best she could describe it, something that made no sense and yet had order to it all at once. Her parents had warned her and Brian not to think about it too long, though, so now she was looking at thread patterns and designs.

She had a side-gig all her own in customized anime-style costumes, which got her more money to make her own costumes and buy more anime. It was a vicious cycle, but it was a lot cleaner than the schemes other girls in school were coming up with.

This order, however…

_"Rina,_

_I've heard good things about your costume design business, and I believe you understand the value of discretion. I'm requesting costumes based off of Cranberry and Blueberry from PWLBJ, with certain modifications for adult activities, detailed in the attachment._

_I'm willing to pay well for quality work. Tell anyone about this, and no one will ever find your body! <3<3<3_

_XOXO,_

_Sylvia Christel"_

She'd looked at the specs she wanted. Cranberry and Blueberry had revealing costumes already, and the specs asked for zipper openings in…

Rina blushed. She couldn't have known about her personal Strawberry design, she hadn't even told Alex about that, and she’d told him everything, even about being a _White Mage_ …

The death threat made her nervous. The offered price made her greedy. She fired back a reply saying she would get to work immediately, and set about her task.

All things considered… designing clothes for _consensual_ sex was probably one of the more _moral_ ways to earn a living around here.

…

_"Candidate #2 is physically weaker than normal tolerances would allow, but repeated observations of her use of bojutsu and mana-scans installed at Santa Destroy High suggest that she has high magic potential. Of notable interest is that our intel suggests her family might possess arcana related to white magic. Members of the Warrens family show a remarkable tendency to recover quickly from injury, suggesting they at least possess knowledge of 'Cure' magic. An incident with a home invasion attempt ending with the suspect's head being incinerated also suggests the disturbing possibility they may have access to the 'sin burning' ritual. I do not think I need to explain how bad it could be if this fell into the hands of the Verum-i."_

_"In the past, to both ensure continued revenue at our hospitals and to safeguard against gaining entrants hoping to pay off medical bills/afford treatment with the grand prize, we have adopted a search and destroy method regarding white magic and its practitioners. However, following a direct order from Miranda Jahana, we are to investigate any leads into any arcane knowledge that could aid our cloning projects."_

_"Psych evaluation is assessing the best way to gain enough leverage to ensure that she will cooperate without intent of sabotage. Initial attempts at recruitment failed miserably due to her relation to a previous target of our medical-based recruitment division. Barring her cooperation, magic suppressant implants would make her a passable 'jobber' senshi (bojutsu addendum needed to rules.). Her acquisition could also aid in ensuring the cooperation of Candidate #1 (Alexander Cross), see attached notes regarding relationship evidence."_

_"Also has considerable and reputable skill as a costume designer. Consider as an ancillary function?"_

-Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #2/6, Rina Warrens. Recommendation: White Magic Research OR Jobber Senshi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little telling when a work order and death threat from the local head of the assassination association is one of the friendlier encounters you can have, isn't it?


	4. Dimas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone. Dimas Videl has been alone for nearly all of his twelve years on this earth, with the loneliness broken only by a brief stint as the apprentice to the now deceased crime lord of Santa Destroy, Dr. Peace. Determined to survive and thrive- mainly by leaving Santa Destroy for good- Dimas prepares to enact the heist of the century...

DIMAS

SANTA DESTROY, CALIFORNIA

NO MORE HEROES HOTEL, ROOM 108

9:06 A.M.

"Gotta say, kid, you're the easiest regular job I take nowadays." The woman took the hundred dollars gratefully. "Hell of a lot cleaner than what I do… er, sorry. Guess you're a little young for that."

The boy shrugged. "People grow up fast around here. Thanks again, I just… I just sleep better, y'know?"

Candy, as she called herself, was presentable for a street walker, blonde hair, good body for someone in their late thirties, and kind enough to humor his requests. It probably was the easiest money she'd made, making him dinner, talking to him about his day, and just watching TV while he fell asleep. Nothing remotely sexual, he just needed to pretend-

_-pretend he had a mom and dad was just working late, and she'd tuck him in bed and sing a little song like mom did when he was three-_

…he let her have the bed this time instead of the hotel's foldout couches- she looked like she needed that.

Besides, it would be the last time he would be here for a while. There was a big job he had planned. It would take minimum of two weeks even if all went well, but if he pulled it off he'd have the time and money to live like a king…

…if he didn't… well, fuck it. It was like Dr. Peace had always said, 'sometimes your number just comes up earlier than you expected.'

"…you okay, hon?" Candy asked, looking at him with…

Pity. The woman who had to make a living selling her body was looking at him with _pity…_

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Just… I got someplace I need to go, something I gotta do." He said with a careless shrug.

Candy pursed her lips together. "Listen, _hun…_ I know I'm not the shining example of great life choices, but… be safe, okay? I don't know what you do to afford your own room, but… it's not right, a kid having to make their own way."

Dimas laughed. "You watch the news, _senora?_ Nothing's right in this world."

Candy turned, taking a breath. "Just… be careful okay? You deserve better than this."

Dimas fought the urge to laugh. "I will. Thanks again."

He was polite enough to close the door and wait until she was out of earshot before he let out a chuckle.

Dimas Videl, 12, looked himself over in the mirror. He didn't look the part of the Zorro-bandit, a cute little Hispanic boy with a short nose, black hair with a stub of a ponytail who had learned how to break into places- physical and digital.

Deserve better than this? This town didn't give a _fuck_ about what you deserved. You took what you got, and if that wasn't enough, you learned to take more without getting caught.

No, it wasn't _fair_ Candy had to sleep around to earn money for her two kids and to keep the lights on, or that his mom and dad got caught in an unscheduled assassin duel crossfire. No, it wasn't fair he went to St. Moloch's Orphanage in Santa Destroy. No, it wasn't fair he'd watched a bunch of kids die from a combination of malnutrition, disease, and the more desperate ones inventing a game called "Catch me, God", which involved the roof of the orphanage and a running jump. Depending on your point of view, there were either no winners or no losers to that game.

Dimas himself had begun to find the game appealing, when a Native American vice detective had come by the orphanage, singled him out, and took him downtown.

Oddly, looking down the barrel of a customized revolver proceeded the best thing to ever happen so far in Dimas' life. Pastel Brankino, a.k.a. Dr. Peace, renowned assassin and your local one-stop shop for anything illegal, needed a go-fer. The alternative was going back to the orphanage and never hearing from him again. Talking about the conversation to anyone Dr. Peace didn't explicitly say he could would let him learn if there really was an afterlife.

In exchange for being the innocent little boy that served as runner, messenger, and decoy, Dr. Peace taught him how to make a way in this world. How to lie. Who to talk to when you wanted something, be it a gun and bullets, or something nastier to plant on someone. Where the scum laid low. The places that gave you true anonymity. How to rob people blind and make them think you were doing them a service.

How to sing so beautifully that people were dabbing their eyes, then rob them blind. He knew the lyrics to " _The virgin child makes her wish without feeling anything"_ by heart. How to shoot, and shoot to kill. How to charge your bullets with ki to make them explosive so that some smart-ass with a beam katana gets a nasty surprise when he blocks.

It had been a great deal. He got to eat actual food and Dr. Peace got a gopher. Then, on his ninth birthday…

…

"I went to the doctor last week." Dr. Peace said as they drove back to the orphanage after another hard day of reinforcing the pecking order of Santa Destroy's criminal population.

There were tones in his voice, tones that indicated you fucked up, you were close to fucking up, or the situation was fucked up. This was the last one, somber and emotionless, trying to get a steady hand on himself.

"What… what did he say?" asked Dimas.

"You know the kind of cancer you can get through with the support of friends, family, and bribing the world's top surgeons? I don't have that." He said somberly. "Doc says I got two months before I start losing feeling in my hands, then my feet, then…" he took a deep breath.

Dimas choked.

"Don't you cry. Don't you dare fucking cry. The moment this world sees weakness, it'll tear you apart." There was almost a fatherly love in the command, an urgency warning him against what they had both seen- there was no pity in this world for the sick, the slow, or the weak, and if you wanted proof you just had to watch a V.G. match, see a duel, or spend five minutes looking around Santa Destroy _._

"I got a duel coming up next week. Don't intend to win. Better than sitting and waiting around to die, so… this is it. There's a locker downtown, number's 35. Combo is 04-26-89. Only open it when you're ready to start life on your own, because anyone sees what's in there, they'll take it from you."

So… this was it, then. Dr. Peace wasn't for sentimental shit, so there would be no goodbye hug or even a fist bump. Professionalism, even when the task wasn't professional…

"Do me a favor, kid." He asked solemnly. "Don't watch. Moms and dads don't need to watch their daughters get fucked on a stage, and you don't need to watch me die."

Dimas gave a nod as he pulled up, looking desperately in his mind for something to say, then finally…

"Do me one last favor, old man…" he said, turning.

Dr. Peace raised an eyebrow.

"Make him sweat for it."

The crime lord of Santa Destroy and his apprentice locked eyes one last time as the elder nodded, then, with a trembling lip, drove away a little faster than would befit a gentlemen, so that neither would see tears forbidden by the code of conduct they'd established.

…

To be fair, despite the gory details of the match he heard through the grapevine, Dimas had little doubt that what Travis had done was the work of a patron saint of mercy compared to what Dr. Peace could expect if his enemies discovered he couldn't fight back.

Hotel No More Heroes was a cheap piece of shit before Travis Touchdown made his mark on the world, and now… it was _still_ a cheap piece of shit, only the manager gave tours of Travis' old room, and Dimas' next personal splurge was going to be to get a room someplace where the toilet fighting back was the exception and not the rule.

He checked his finances on the cell phone he'd stolen several months ago. There was more than enough to last here and enjoy all the finer pleasures of Santa Destroy's booming economy, but staying in one place for too long was a death mark for someone young like him, who made a career off of stepping on the toes of assholes.

The job in question was the S.S. Loviatar- or more appropriately, the clientele. If there was ever a group of assholes that deserved to be fleeced hard, it was the kind of aristocrat trust-fund baby who would go on a luxury cruise to watch desperate martial artist girls get violated.

Dr. Peace knew all the best strip clubs and massage parlors from here to Florida, left him a list of who gave happy endings and great endings for when he turned 18, and yet he had his limits- no meant no, no matter what. They had been at a bar, a week before Peace's cancer diagnosis, when a V.G. match was just ending on T.V., most of the patrons paying eager attention and cheering when the losing girl- someone from Santa Destroy, no less- had started begging for mercy as the penalty crew advanced.

Dimas had just stared at his burger and fries, but Dr. Peace asked- no, _told-_ the bartender to change the channel of his own accord, with the same tone he reserved for addressing child molesters before killing them. The crowd groaned angrily and the bartender had refused, saying it was just getting good.

The exploding bullet Peace had put in the T.V. made his position on such matters very clear to all in attendance.

"We're not saints, kid. Chances are when you get to hell, I'll be there singin' karaoke. You'll do things you'd never want your mother to know about if you wanna live to see 30 in this town, that's just the way it is. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have _fucking standards._ "

He wondered what Peace would think of him pulling off a robbery like this, then he shook his head. It didn't matter _what_ Peace would think, or his parents would think, or what Sister Martha would think if she was sober for more than an hour at a time.

The _S.S. Loviatar_ was docking in Santa Destroy next month. It would be a massive influx of brief tourism as those wealthy enough to afford a place onboard flocked to the port. As his financial stance was, he could probably afford to just bribe his way on board and no one would blink twice… but the problem with that was he was going to be doing things that would piss a lot of people off with no real escape route for two weeks.

Dr. Peace had never precisely gone over this exact kind of scenario, but Dimas liked to think of himself as someone who could extrapolate plans from previous experiences, and he knew that being on a relatively small, confined area with people who might very well want you dead was a very bad idea. Therefore, it would be beneficial for everyone he cared about – namely himself and getting Candy's son a college fund started – if he were to be onboard without being seen boarding. It would be even better if he could arrange to never be seen.

Man, that _would_ impress Dr. Peace. It was one thing to shake down the local dealers for your share, and make it clear that no matter who their supplier was, _you_ were the one that got the first cut, but to rob a boat full of assholes blind without ever being seen?

Peace always said there was lines between fakes, amateurs, and professionals. Dimas knew that even if everything went off without a hitch, he still couldn't call himself a professional, not yet…

…but it'd be several big steps in the right direction.

He went over to a drawer, opened it, reached under a pile of t-shirts, and found the other cell-phone, a custom job by the infamous Dr. Naomi, specialized so that it would appear as a fake number on the other end and be resistant to traces by all but the most specialized tools.

It was time to make some calls. One of which would be to the good doctor herself…

…

Entering Dr. Naomi's warehouse laboratory unannounced and uninvited resulted in one of two things, the more merciful of which was simply having a sexually frustrated don't-ask-her-age-if-you-want-to-live mad scientist empty the magazine of some god-awful modified bastard of an APC9 SMG into you, with enough skill to actually hit more often than miss, but not enough to guarantee a clean kill. Even if she was testing out some new ammunition for lethality, stopping power, or _messiness,_ it was still a better than the second option.

That was when Naomi got _creative,_ and while the exact details of it all varied depending on what projects she had cooking, how bored she was, and whether her last date had been satisfying, the one constant among all the variables was the screaming. And if she was particularly proud of the current test results, even if they weren't exactly up to her standards for final products, she might post your final agonizing moments on Youtube, under such dignified, respectful epitaphs as "Bowel Disrupter Prototype Test #34 (NSFW)", "Fuckaschmuck Part 2, Electric(al burn) Boogaloo", or "Pros and cons of thermite bullets".

She had some really good points about why thermite rounds weren't worth the risk, regardless of the satisfaction a successful shot would give you… but all the same Dimas gave her a call and asked permission for her time beforehand.

The long black-haired, well-proportioned dark science goddess could and had taken any man she wanted to bed with her – some of which were allegedly able to walk unassisted again. Fortunately she stopped short of enticing anyone under eighteen, which meant that as long as he set his twin revolvers on a desk and showed he had no holdout weapon, he and the good doctor could talk face-to-face. He tried not to think about the peculiar looking device in the far right corner that had what looked like a sci-fi laser cannon's barrel aimed in his direction, or the control panel near Naomi's keyboard.

"You want a suitcase with a camera and internal air supply?" she asked. It probably wasn't the oddest request she'd heard by far, and her lack of surprise showed. "Huh. Yeah, I can do that. Why?"

Lying to Naomi gave her the wrong data to plan with, and worse, it made her angry. "I'm going to rob the S.S. Loviatar, and I need to get on it without being seen."

Her look went from bored to aware in a split second, and she paused as if she expected for Dimas to say he was kidding before telling her what he really needed it for, then she blinked as it slowly dawned that he wasn't joking. "Hold on. Okay, I get it, you got taught fundraising 101 by Dr. Peace. But you want to sneak onboard a cruise ship."

" _Si_."

"Holding the _Variable Geo_ tournament, hosting a bunch of rich assholes who think girls getting raped is high-class entertainment, and you're going to rob said people blind while out at sea, where there aren't any friendly witnesses."

" _Si._ "

"A tournament run by the fucking Jahana Group, led by the queen of psycho bitches Miranda, who is the one person I _won't_ fucking make tech for because what she wants gives me nightmares?"

" _Si._ "

Naomi assessed him with raised eyebrows for several seconds. "That's the dumbest idea I've heard all week, and I had some idiot ask if I could make him a grappling hook that fired out of his urethra. I mean, he had the money, so I _did,_ he just aimed it at a transformer during the test run and… well, the Youtube video of it was funny, at least. But seriously, that is pants-on-head retarded, and if Dr. Peace was still alive he'd shoot you in the knee so you'd have time to think about what a dumbass decision you're making."

Another moment passed as she took a sip of her beer. "I love it. I want $2,000 upfront, and it can be ready in nine days."

It was _good_ to work with professionals.

…

A thought occurred to Dimas as he made his plan of attack: that he might be done with the actual fleecing of credit card numbers and social securities before the entire two week cruise was up, and that it might behoove him to get back to shore before the boat did. Time after time, he'd seen examples and learned personally that the best defense against getting caught was a head start.

And he would need as big a gap as possible between his evasive maneuvers beginning and any indication arising that the _Loviatar's_ guests had been robbed if he didn't want to wind up as something that made Naomi's channel look like _Pure White Lover Bizarre Jelly._

He'd learned to swim, tossed from a boat by Dr. Peace into a bit of California coastline not so horribly polluted as to kill him before he drowned, with the explicit threat of shooting him dead if he got back out of the water anywhere but a very specific point on the beach. This exercise- repeated several times and twice when he was dead asleep- had been essential in developing his stamina, swimming technique, remaining calm in disaster situations, and planning ways to kill Dr. Peace and make it look like a fatal case of irritable bowel syndrome.

He had no intent of swimming the entire distance to shore from the ship's charted course, however, and that was where talking to the owner of a private yacht, Roger Morris, who was willing to take a bribe and directions without asking unnecessary questions that would complicate things, like "why are you planning to jump off a cruise ship in the middle of the night" or "why are you going to be onboard the Loviatar?"

A tracking beacon would serve as the difference between life or death once he hit the water, and even now he knew that would be a gamble. He'd wait for the yacht to get close enough before jumping overboard, preferably during night or during a match, when everyone would be distracted. After that, he hoped Roger was greedy enough to take other half of the payment, get him out of there, and say he'd never heard of free-diving twelve year old bandits.

Now that the waters of Body Slam Beach were more refreshing and cool than they were blistering and necrotic, there was a fair amount of snorkeling and diving shops that catered to beachcombers and drug hustlers who preferred wetter routes.

A wetsuit would provide protection against sun and jellyfish, flippers would help him swim a little better, and a mask would let him keep a clear field of vision without being blinded by salt water. It was costly, but his expected returns on this would be astronomical…

The revolvers and ammunition would have to do for firepower if he got caught and escape was feasible. If not… he knew the tournaments were female only, but he had a sneaking suspicion they'd make an exception to that and the tenuous age limit when pissed off enough.

He had heard enough of the tournaments to know one thing: he would not be taken alive.

…

_Healplz_ was an unregulated version of the Jahana group's _Vulneritol,_ and both had their own little sordid history behind them. If you believed the conspiracy theorists or the _Verum-I_ pamphlets, _Vulneritol_ was a bastardized watering down of some formula for a basic healing potion, being more palliative than effective in wound healing. It was good as a disinfectant, but not much else.

_Healplz,_ on the other hand, was an entirely different can of worms. Allegedly there was some basis in truth for alchemy, and the healing potion ran on very strict formulas and being brewed under very certain conditions. Getting the formula wrong, as a self-sampling drug producer might do, resulted in something referred to as _Healplz._ It would heal and disinfect wounds, but often a batch of _Healplz_ was either overcharged or misdirected, causing cell growth of the worst kind in areas that didn't need it, or hideous necrotic scars where it healed initially.

The best solution in this dilemma, Peace had taught him, was that both solutions were just awful, and to pay a visit to the old woman on the outskirts of town in the abandoned neighborhood.

Daniel's Creek was the kind of dilapidated neighborhood that made _No More Heroes_ look like a four-star hotel, with most of the houses either wore away by time to ruin, or in the process of collapsing on themselves. There was nothing green here. People talked about what happened here, a thousand different stories about a mass suicide, or an attempt to summon a demon that resulted in some sort of psychic contagion, the water and electricity being shut off for days due to stupid human error, and everyone just giving up as life in a shitty town went into a freefall…

The sun shone a little dimmer here. There were no thugs or drug dealers here, not even the squatters wanted to try their luck in a place where you always felt watched, felt the neck hairs on your back raise to ward you of an incoming danger, only there was nothing there when you turned. Dr. Peace had warned him never to go here after sundown, and if for any reason he did, to not investigate anything that sounded like a crying little girl.

His previous gopher had run off looking for her, morality getting the better of him. There had been a long, loud cry of agony, and that was the last Dr. Peace had seen or heard of Officer Mark.

High noon, and it felt like sunset here. The house before him had dust for a lawn and cracked rock that might have been stepping stones leading to a single-story home that looked to be built out of wood the color of dried blood. Unlike the other houses, it was still sturdy. The gutters overflowed with dead leaves and the windows were opaque with dust, but it still stood, and within this foreboding single-story domicile that seemed to shrink too much as you retreated yet grew too large as you approached, there lived Old Lady Hecate.

There was a book return style box-slot at her door, and you had to know how to ask for what you wanted, know the price, and have your exact order ready for when you reached the threshold of her door, dropped it in the slot, and waited for her to knock to let you know the order was ready. Otherwise she wouldn't do business. At the very _best._

One idiot had allegedly tried to kick in her door. He was found later in the so called "Forest of Bewilderment", his body being used as a hive for hornets. They'd only realized he was still conscious after they had sprayed him with pesticides and prepared to take the body to the morgue.

He lived for three more days, unable to speak or move anything but his eyes. The lesson was still fresh in his mind.

Dimas had a very clearly written list of what he needed- 3 Potions, 2 Antidotes just in case some asshole on the security team or Penalty Crew had Viper bullets. He'd had one of her potions before, after a shakedown went wrong and four bullets ripped through him. Without it, Dr. Peace had told him he was looking at years of recovery.

One potion later and his wounds foamed, healed good as new. The blood loss made him woozy, but fluids and rest helped that. That had been all the sales pitch he needed for Hecate's own brand of pharmaceuticals. Peace had told him if he told anyone about the potion or where he got it, he _wouldn't_ shoot him, but it would be in his best interests to step in front of a train or jump off a building before Hecate found out.

$450 exactly for three potions, two antidotes, both at $50 a pop. It was still a hell of a lot better than the healthcare system around here, and infinitely more effective.

The extra $200 was for a last resort bit of insurance. It was called 'Exit', and if you ever wanted to leave this world quickly and painlessly, denying a vengeful foe the opportunity to give you a new definition of pain, Exit, wholly drunk by a willing imbiber, caused instantaneous painless death.

Dimas had heard how the girl from Santa Destroy was found dead later at her mother's grave. How she had screamed, begged for it to all end while people cheered, and he knew deep within what was left of his conscience that once people were that far gone, there wasn't any depths to which they wouldn't sink. Better to be safe than sorry.

He walked up to the door, heard shuffling around inside as he opened the slot, dropped the note and money inside, closed it. He took a step back from the door as he heard an elderly woman give a noise of disinterest.

There was no explicit rule about speaking to Hecate, but Peace had told him it was unwise, so he waited in silence.

He heard the soft clinking of glass and the movement of the slot, then there were three gentle knocks. Within were three opaque sky blue bottles of liquid, two acid green vials, and one transparent plastic bottle full of black ichor. Gingerly, he packed them away, wrapped in tissue to avoid breakage.

Out of habits instilled via ruler at the orphanage, he'd said " _Gracias, senora_ " before it occurred to him that he should not have done that, _fuck…_

There was a soft, tittering laugh of surprise, as if the concept of gratitude was completely foreign to her, then…

" _De nada._ "

Somewhere in the mess of broken and ruined houses, he heard a little girl laughing.

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

…

The matter of bribing one of the luggage handlers to put a suitcase in the cargo hold in such a way that it wasn't obstructed was a trivial thing- everyone needed an extra $500 nowadays. Hypothetically, getting the liquor for his final errand should have required a bit more effort, but there was an unspoken rule in Santa Destroy that anyone who could afford a drink deserved it, if only to help get through the day.

_Jeramiah Henley Single Barrel_ bourbon wasn't the most expensive booze, but it was what Dr. Peace liked, and it only cost five over the shelf price to get the store owner to look the other way.

Now, riding a bike in the cool evening air, he had one final stop. Hands on his guns, the bottle in his backpack, he chained up his bike and looked towards Destroy Stadium.

Some baseball teams offered pennants or signed balls as souvenirs. The Santa Destroy warriors offered scars, and if you brought booze as a piece offering, they'd even let you choose where you got it and wouldn't deliberately aim for any vital organs. The joke was "I went to an attempted murder at Destroy Stadium, and a baseball game broke out."

Except it was a little less funny now that had actually happened. Twice.

Getting into the stadium was easy for him, there was no one here but homeless and drug addicts so fried out of their minds they talked to their own shadows. It was enlightening to listen to some of the debates, really- you could only hear one side of course, but there were some interesting theories about the multiverse and afterlife to hear among the ones that could still form coherent words.

He made his way out onto the field, approaching the pitcher's mound, the glaring lights that illuminated every play, misdemeanor or felony now dark and gloomy, the only illumination being the small fires the denizens had lit. A flashlight helped him ensure he didn't step on anyone or anything.

This was where Dr. Peace, the man who was the closest thing to a father for most of his life, had breathed his last, giving a stirring final song that had even the bloodthirstiest UAA fight fans applauding for a singer who would never hear it.

"I don't know if you can hear or see me, you know?" he said to the empty air. "I bet if you could speak to me, you'd tell me this is some sappy bullshit and that you raised me better than this." He laughed, hearing the rebuke play out in his head. "So, really, I guess this is for me as much as it is for you."

"For all the shit you put me through, for all the risks we took, you were one of the few people who would rather see me live instead of die, and in this town, that's saying something. You taught me how to live. How to be just enough of a bastard so no one who fucked with me would live to tell about it, but where to draw the line."

His eyes began to water, and he took a few moments to steady himself.

"You went out a fucking bad-ass, chose the day and time you would leave this shithole and start taking over hell, and made sure your ex and daughter were taken care of. I still check in on them, you know? Jennifer's an apprentice to Dr. Naomi now."

He had to finish this quick, or he was going to break down crying, and the last person who broke down crying here got a beam katana through the gut for her troubles…

"Old man, for whatever it's worth… this one's for you."

The bottle of his preferred poison was opened, and he emptied it on the place Dr. Peace had breathed his last. The last amber drops of butterscotch-flavored fire fell into the dirt, and yet…

It didn't feel like enough of a tribute.

No, bourbon was part of it, but…

[Recommended Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G936nVzUNjs]

With a practiced effort, he forced the sobs and tears back for another time when he could let them out behind closed doors… took a deep breath, and…

_Despair, the end of the world_

_I hear the rising phoenix in my dreams_

_And the virgin child made her wish upon a star_

_That night her mother talks no moooooore_

They sang it once at a karaoke bar when he got it perfect, to tears and thunderous applause, and even now he could hear him sing with him, in perfect harmony…

_Cape of Hope, the end of the dream_

_A shiny fish splashes in a stream_

_And the virgin child loses her heart and soul_

_That night her mother's eyes see no moooooore_

The tears came now, but his voice held steady, and louder and clearer than he ever managed before, with only the moon and stars as his audience…

_When the wind blows_

_The virgin child's corpse sings a song_

_Such a pretty melody, never heard befoooooore!_

Live or die, win or lose, his last act before spitting in the reaper's face was going to be the song of his mentor.

_No more lullabies_

_The virgin… child smiles from… Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell!_

There was silence.

He turned to leave-

"HOLY SHIT MAN, THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!" called a homeless woman.

"FUCK YEAH, DR. PEACE LIVES AGAIN!" screamed an addict in a moment of sobriety.

It was the cheering of addicts and outlaws, but it was cheers nonetheless.

He bowed to the audience of outcasts, unable to stop the tears.

"Thank you, thank you… mighty kind of you…"

…

_"Candidate #3 is the last known surviving pupil of the late Dr. Peace, UAA assassin and crime lord/law enforcement in Santa Destroy. With multiple kills confirmed to be the work of the candidate as well as noted aptitudes for reconnaissance, covert operations in a city environment, infiltration, creating false documents and a knowledge of how to command criminal elements, we feel Dimas would make an excellent choice for molding into a troubleshooter for our more discrete needs."_

_"While Dimas' age would normally be a concern, Psych evaluations suggest this age would be the best time to redefine his sense of right and wrong, particularly if we can emphasize a 'kill or be killed' mentality that is prevalent among Santa Destroy youth. Of particular interest are his recent activities, which seem to suggest he's gearing up for a massive operation. Our intel suggests that he is planning to board the S.S. Loviatar, for what is assumed to be retrieval of our guest's personal information for his own personal exploitation."_

_"While it is concerning we didn't know about this planned attack until we were informed by a Mr. Moore via confidential hotline, the level of planning and foresight shown in his projected methods of entry and escape speaks volumes to his ability to independently act and prepare for potential obstacles. It is highly advised that we allow him to succeed to a 'halfway' point before confronting him, and offering him a choice between temporary employment and later training or elimination."_

_"We would also suggest making sure any critical data regarding our clandestine operations is not stored on the Loviatar's computers, given his recent phishing successes. Consider side-training in cyber-ops?"_

-Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #3/6, Dimas Vidal. Recommendation: Security/Covert Ops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heist on a yacht catering to sadists and sociopaths with connections and money. What could go wrong?


	5. Kelsie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kelsie Cooper, life all too often boiled down to choosing between bad and worse. That's how she managed to get a job as a waitress at a young age while studying martial arts to protect herself- a dangerous combination in this world, but an alternative to poverty or being a victim. Diners with grabby hands and an inability to understand 'no' repeatedly necessitate short, violent lessons in manners- lessons that are beginning to attract the worst kind of attention...

KELSIE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

POP'S OLD FASHIONED BURGERS

4:17 P.M.

Brett Creek, 35, white, blonde, and recently made single, had a lot of maybes in his life.

__Maybe if Brett hadn't groped his bosses' daughter as she walked past his cubicle, he would still have a job. It was hard to tell, Mr. Klaus was such a stuck-up, old-fashioned piece of shit who wasn't willing to get with the times, he might have found himself gone at the end of the week anyway. But then he could have got a reference instead of a restraining order.

Then, maybe if Brett wasn't fired, he wouldn't be staring at his burger in a diner full of women clad in old fashioned, pastel-yellow Americana waitress getups, thinking about what he would do if he could just get one into bed with him. He would be busy, after all, and not eating a lonely lunch while he waited for his cell to ring with a response to all those applications he'd made.

Maybe if he wasn't staring at said women with said uniforms and thinking about the next Variable Geo tournament, how he'd kill to be on that boat, pampered and catered to, the centerpiece of the evening being a new kind of depraved high that porn could no longer give him, he wouldn't have pinched the ass of that one cute milk-chocolate girl with dreadlock braids done back in a ponytail, moving around the restaurant like she was skating on air. Maybe if he'd stopped when she'd asked him to, or when she told him she was fourteen, the day could have ended differently.

There were a lot of maybes for today.

But he was 100% certain that the singular moment his day had gone from bad to worse was when he tried to cop a feel on said waitress' breasts, and her face had gone from embarrassed and disarming to a sort of disappointed fury.

An older, jaded waitress had sighed, saying just loud enough for everyone to hear: "Here we go again…" and that was all the warning Brett got.

Her right foot had swung in an arc off the ground in a fluid arc to bring the heel screaming into the right side of his face, bouncing his head off the table and bringing her back into a fighting stance. He had then decided on overpowering her, taking her into the men's room, and giving her a lesson in manners, like a real man should. (Or so his father, thrice divorced and now single and dateless, had taught him.)

That had been the _idea,_ and like most of Brett's brilliant plans it had worked out so much better in his head.

A barrage of fists sent him staggering back as they slammed into his face in _onetwothreefourfive_ staccato, vision blurred so that a trio of angry teenage African-American war goddesses advanced towards him.

"When I want someone-"

A mechanical piston shot out into his stomach, making him double over… no wait that was her leg…

"-like _you_ to touch me-"

A knee rose up into his chin, his two front teeth unpleasantly rolling back down his throat…

"-I'll bring a microscope and tweezers-"

His head wobbled forward to see there was only one angry teenager… okay, hands up, he could still take her, she got a few lucky hits in, that's all…

She twisted, raising her left leg and shooting it between his clenched fists into his chest, cracking the center body of his rib cage and making his breath escape in a wheeze...

"-so we can see if your _withered old needle-dick still works_!"

And then the consequences of all Brett's poor life choices came to a head- his _own_ head, in fact- as she jumped, spun in a deadly arc as she extended her right leg, the same heel that landed the initial blow struck the already swelling cranium in the same exact spot yet again, landing gracefully and flawlessly as Brett spun in a broken pirouette.

The last thought Brett had before he hit the ground was the constant admonishment his 1st grade teacher gave him…

_Keep your hands to yourself._

…

Kelsie Cooper, the 14-year old African-American waitress, Kyokushin artist, and supposed war goddess, regarded the third customer this year to not understand just what the unfortunately necessary poster at the front door meant.

_"We hire the friendliest faces, and we want to keep them safe and friendly. Please keep your hands- and your fantasies- confined to our burgers for your safety as well as our employees."_

It was unfortunately a statement not done out of pure goodness of the heart. A waitress weary of sexual harassment would quit. A waitress who might have looks _and_ a martial arts background could leave in a huff, and with her went any chance of Pop's Burgers getting a name into the tournament.

Most waitresses knew what happened once you signed on- the temptation of a five million purse and free advertising for your establishment paled in comparison to what happened if you lost. The sensible idea it would seem was that if you were a waitress, or really, a female employee at any bar, casino, restaurant, club, or anywhere that had a uniform besides nunnery garb, you stayed away from martial arts. If you were a martial artist, you avoided the former kind of jobs like the plague.

This, however, was based off the idea that your preferences in life held any water whatsoever. Jobs were hard to find when you were just starting out. The world was becoming a shittier place at a faster rate, with men _and_ women who never learned to take no for an answer, and sometimes the only way to make it clear you weren't interested was to put someone in the E.R.

Doing that required firearms or martial arts. Very few establishments a girl could get work at were comfortable with their ladies packing heat, wielding beam katanas, or even brass knuckles. That left finding a master that would teach you the kind of martial arts that would allow a teenage girl to take down someone at least twice her age with minimal risk to herself.

Her father called it "pigeon-holing", the Jahana Group and their associates slowly narrowing down the choices younger women had in terms of jobs and defense, so that there would be a greater chance of getting what they wanted: more fresh talent. Not the kind of talent that would even pass the first match, mind. Someone that could look like she knew how to fight, and was eye-candy enough for the penalty.

More fresh meat.

She snapped back to reality as applause hit her ears, the patrons shouting their approval of her handing of the lecherous 30-something scumbag, now bleeding and very much unconscious on the floor. So she smiled that shy 'nothing special' disarming grin her mother taught her.

It would be good practice for when the police arrived. At least this would be wrapped up easier than those two assholes who got the jukebox scrapped…

…

Officer Patrick Delauc was one of the 'good ones', a third-generation Irish beat-cop who stuck to the letter of the law and was either too busy or too ethical to pat-down everyone who wasn't white. There was no asking him to look the other way, no negotiation as to what the law was and wasn't, but Delauc acted professional, and professionals had _standards._ They hadn't earnen him any invites to the bar after his shift, nor had they got him a promotion, yet still he held to them.

"This shit again? Already?" The slightly pudgy officer with a rounded face dutifully took down yet another report as he regarded the now semi-conscious failed rapist as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance, cuffed to a gurney and sporting a neck brace. "Do these pricks not hear about the last one that tried to cop a feel? Or the one before that?"

She gave a shrug she hoped was explanatory and disarming. "We have a sign up front, and I told him to stop. I gave him his one warning shot and he kept coming."

"That'd be the kick you gave him 'cross the head, right?" the officer chuckled. "I'm all for standin' and deliverin' when someone throws a punch, but I'd think someone would have enough sense to call it quits when a girl your age knocks out a few teeth…"

Delauc paused in silence for a while as he finished the report. "Listen… Kelsie." And his tone got sober as he looked around. "I ain't gonna say these bastards didn't have it comin', okay? But people hear about these sort of things, you know… and…"

His lips pinched together. "…fuck me, I can't even bring myself to say it. You know what people are looking for, right? They're not looking for champions or the next big winner. Just more meat. This… this business, it's sick and wrong, I don't care what they offer you, don't get taken in."

Kelsie shook her head. "I'm not signing up for that. Not my thing." It was a succinct enough answer and the reasons could be inferred, but Kelsie had a really good idea about who she would want to be her first, and it wasn't anyone on the Penalty Crew.

Or male.

"It doesn't have to be _your_ thing. That's just it. These people… if they take an interest in you, they'll change the rules, lower the age limit, and just squeeze until…" Delauc stopped short. "Please. Be very, very careful. It's no world for good people anymore."

That she had no comeback for. No, it wasn't.

…

It was eight P.M. when she got off and headed home, and she knew she'd probably get back before her parents did. The streets were getting dark even now in the summer, and while she could handle one or two opponents, she didn't want to take her chances with thugs who carried knives, guns, and no conscience. She had changed out of uniform in the women's restroom while one of the short order cooks- a mean, burly tough looking sonofabitch with a heart of gold- stood watch as the waitresses changed, one after another, into something less immediately identifiable with the depravity of the day.

The 8:15 bus was mercifully on time, and she took her seat as quickly as she could, grateful for not having to walk the entire way home. To work in the daylight? Sure. There was still something left in people that told them when and where awful things should take place, and it was good exercise. At nighttime?

Not if she had her own UAA assassin bodyguard.

Tomorrow she had off from work, but she'd be doing something more high-impact at the dojo- practicing as a black belt, drilling with other boys and girls who wanted to be less of a victim. Sensei Kubo was a strict man with a voice that rattled you to the bone, suffered no slacking off, would send you home if you didn't give your all, and cared for each of his students as if they were his own child.

Which made a sad sort of sense, really. There was a memorial shrine in his office, with a picture of his wife and son. He had been planning to retire as an instructor before a fire had taken his old house and the entirety of the new life he'd been planning. All of his hopes and dreams, gone up in smoke.

There was an awful lot of that going around, nowadays.

He had confided to Kelsie before, as they cleaned the dojo, that he was going to retire because the thought of girls being recruited for what he had taught- martial arts and the use of ki for defense- was unbearable. After the fire, his options were to either put his energy into training people to be better than the world, or to just lay down and die.

It was really what life boiled down to for Kelsie and nearly everyone she knew- a series of decisions between bad and worse, rarely having any clear distinction between which was which. Playing Russian Roulette with a gun loaded with alternating paint and hollow point rounds, and hoping you would survive, bruised, damaged, but able to walk away, hopefully with your dignity intact.

Retaining dignity was why Kubo's dojo was always closed on three days- his wife's birthday, their anniversary, and his son's birthday. What he did, Kelsie didn't ask. If he wanted a private day to let the pain out and just try to get himself together for the next one, then that was his right.

The bus stopped close enough to her apartment building that she could make a quick run for it before any of the local scumbags could think about giving her trouble, but the truth was people in her neighborhood were usually wary of starting a fight that could get the police involved.

Most of the cops weren't as professional as Delauc, having a "shoot first, shoot again, shoot often" approach to conflict resolution. The local stores stopped selling nerf guns after one summer four years ago, when two groups of kids- having the most harmless shootout the neighborhood had seen since its construction- were fired on by two officers who saw neon green and electric blue foam dart guns with orange tips, saw the kids drop the 'weapons' when commanded, and somehow decided to fire three magazines apiece into the group.

Eight dead, among them her older brother, who was the first to tell the others to just do what they were told- he was the first to put his gun down, put his hands on his head, and kneel on the street. That earned him the first six rounds and a label as the ringleader of the "gang violence".

Four critically injured. They, along with another uninjured four were arrested, charged with unlawful possession of a weapon, resisting arrest, and a slew of other charges. In the system before they even got into junior high. There were protests and reviews of the non-existent evidence against the surviving four suspects of the "Nerf Massacre", and every year a new face promised a new trial for them. Another chance for a pro-bono lawyer to prove that even if they hadn't immediately dropped their toys, that the nerf darts and their launchers couldn't have inflicted any harm whatsoever.

They were still in juvie, and the two officers had been promoted several times for their "tireless work and dedication to the community". It was one more kick to the gut in a world that was hell-bent on finding brand new ways to tell you how much it hated you, and wanted you to suffer.

She walked up the stairs of _Stanley Apartments,_ one of the more respectable hostelries in her part of town, her home for as long as she could remember. Her little shelter from the craziness of the world.

The two bedroom apartment was cozy. A modest kitchen, one bathroom. Air conditioning and heat that worked more often than not. The rewards of two parents working two jobs and her part-time gig. It was that or homelessness when you were open about your stance on the tournaments. Opposing one meant you could say you had _preferences._ Opposing both meant you were outdated and obsolete, or so had been the verdict given by her dad's old boss when he'd been shown the door. Bad and worse, again and again.

'Bad and worse' had been why her parents _tolerated_ her preference of girls to men. Conservative as they were, they didn't approve of it, but, as her father had said grimly, "If it gives you one more reason not to get involved with that mess…"

Her mother had been slightly more understanding, saying she would grow out of it, like it was a Halloween costume or a pair of shoes that could be taken on and off. She was what she was, and hopefully they would come to terms with that.

Neither of them were home. Not surprising. She decided to start dinner, red beans and rice, the budget meal of choice of the Cooper household, with some spices thrown in to make it more appealing.

She was almost finished when her mother arrived home from her job as pharmacist- bone-tired, from the looks of it, short black hair bedraggled from another long day of filling prescriptions and refusing junkies when they tried to get pain pills.

Brittney Cooper did not appear to be in a good mood as she sat down her purse, and immediately Kelsie went into damage control. "Hi, mom, how was-"

"I got a call saying you beat a grown-man unconscious. _Again._ "

She went back to stirring beans into rice, sighing as her older coworker had prior to her impromptu martial arts demonstration. "Here we go…"

"Do you not see the times? Do you not see what they do when they find out about people like you? You work as a waitress _and_ you kick ass, they'll want yours! Stuff like this doesn't go through the cracks anymore, they'll find out who you are, where you work, where you _live-_ "

"What am I supposed to do, huh?" she said, forcibly restraining herself from slamming her hand down on the counter- the last time she did that, it had cost them a fortune in repairs… "We have three signs telling them to keep their hands to their damn self, I told him two times I wasn't interested, and then he grabbed my tits-"

That made her mother wince.

"-and mom I got the lecture already. From the other ladies. From the cop. You think I'm blind and deaf? Fucking teachers still talking about last year's tournament, about this year's tournament, who they wanna see lose first…"

"Baby, I lost one child already." Her mother said, tears forming in her eyes. "I lost a baby and the men who shot him dead got nice new shiny boy scout badges. I don't wanna lose you too… the things they do, they tear you up inside and-"

"Mom, you know I'm not going, and you know why." Kelsie countered.

"You haven't heard how they talk to the girls they want. You think they do cold calls? They look at _everything_ about you _,_ who you are, where you've been, and they find just the right buttons to push…"

There was silence in the kitchen, broken only by Kelsie dutifully making sure the meal was getting cooked correctly.

"Did you hurt the guy bad?" her mother asked as the tension faded.

"They took his ass to the ER first, then lockup." Kelsie replied.

"That's my girl." She said with a detectable amount of pride.

Her mother was setting the table as her father Lawton, a muscular ex-electrician with a crew cut head and clean-shaven boulder of a face, walked in from his second job as an auto-mechanic. A new bandage on his left hand and the sigh he made told her all she needed to know about how his day went.

"Could someone please explain why I got a call during a bathroom break about how my daughter gave _another_ asshole a concussion?" his tone indicated a distinct lack of appreciation for being interrupted during one of the very rare times he got to sit down during the day.

"Touch tits, get hits." Kelsie explained succinctly.

Her father gave her a look of suppressed approval. "Police?"

"Delauc."

Lawton Cooper let out a sigh of relief. "Good."

They were seated shortly, eating and commiserating.

"The new pharmacy technician never showed up for his shift, calls one hour before it was supposed to be over, asks if I can cover his shift Saturday and Sunday." Brittney shook her head. "Then I find out Chance never sent our reorders out to be filled, so I'm doing that and telling people we don't have their pills, getting screamed at all the while, and he has the balls to tell me I should have reminded him- my boss- about reordering."

"But… the last time you told him he needed to reorder was last week, right?" Kelsie asked.

"Mmm-hmm." Brittney affirmed.

"And… you told us you got written up for that, right? 'Disrespectful and condescending attitude' when you _did_ remind him?"

"Mmm-hmm." Her mother nodded.

Business as usual, then. She was still sympathetic, of course, but Trey Chance messing up the simplest of tasks was nothing new. Her mother's day shift was at a sister pharmacy, whose boss was fairly competent, so that was a relief…

"Dumbass came in with a corroded battery." Her dad began. "As in, so corroded one of the leads snapped off when we were looking at it. That pissed him off so bad he started screaming, so our manager gave him half-off a battery just to get him out of there and offered to install it for free. Dumbass refuses, tries to do it himself, and so we had to call an EMS to call his fried ass off our parking lot." Her father blew through his lips.

"What about your hand?" asked Brittney cautiously.

"Oh, that was my fault. Brought my hand up too quick on a sharp edge. Just a small cut, it's cleaned." He said dismissively.

Kelsie noted her parents' eyes turning to her. "You all heard it. More of the same. Told the guy three times I didn't want him, twice with my mouth, once with my foot. After that he kept coming, so I practiced on him. At least he didn't puke on the floor like the last one."

Her father looked down at his bowl, then back up. "Your boss… Jaeger, he talk to you at all about the…"

"No. I think it's because of the age limits. They're not gonna want me until I'm 16."

Her father looked back at her sadly. "You say that like it's gonna be years and years. It was just yesterday we brought you home from the hospital, I swear… honey. They'll change the age limit if they get desperate or sicker. Don't you have some guys there that can handle things? Get them to do it."

Over and over and over, this argument. If you don't fight back, they thought you wanted it and the guy interfering was just getting between you two. If you fought back, the Jahana group knocked on your door.

Bad and worse.

Was it too much to ask that a good option come along?

Her parents went to bed almost immediately after dinner, a consequence of expending stamina to deal with other people's idiocy all day. When she heard the soft snoring that indicated they were deeply asleep, she went over to the family computer, and against her better judgement, logged into Voxnet, a chat server used for everything and anything.

Kelsie had used it, in rare moments of privacy, to talk to a girl named Melony, a sweet freckled thing with sandy hair and a smile that lit up the room. They'd shared hopes, dreams, jokes, and eventually, one day when they had met in the park, a kiss.

Forcing the tears back, she read the final messages Melony had sent her a month ago- "Im sry. Ur a wunderful grl, but Im not sure whether I'm str8/bi/gay/other. I need to think. Plz don't take this personaly." Kelsie had sent several tearful messages pleading for her to talk, to tell her why she was breaking up, anything… but Melony had sent nothing else, not even a request to leave her alone.

She still had feelings for her. Probably always would.

Her mother had told her that what she felt was confusing intimacy for love, that she couldn't force a girl to be gay if that's not what she was deep down. The awful thought came to Kelsie that Melony had done what she had out of _pity,_ feeling that someone who stood up to the school bullies and thugs deserved something…

She wasn't sure what it was- love or lust. But what she did know was that it hurt now that it was gone.

…

"AGAIN!"

Punch punch kick "KIAI!"

"AGAIN!"

Punch punch kick "KIAI!"

"AGAIN!" Kubo, a slab of muscle and scars, walked over to Kelsie as they drilled a basic combo repeatedly.

Punch punch- jump, block, dodge, spinning back kick- jump, block, block, block, back away, sweep (of _course_ that didn't work) block the overhead kick, dodge the throw, palm strikes, front kick, pun-

"STOP." Her attacker and sensei ordered, and her fist obligingly came to a halt.

"Kelsie." Kubo began. "Why did I attack you?"

"Sensei, to see if I was paying attention!" Kelsie responded.

"What happens if you stop paying attention on the street?" he asked.

"Sensei, you get hurt!" _Hurt_ was such a simple word, but to say "you get mugged, raped, killed, and not necessarily in that order" was a bit too dark.

What passed for approval flickered on his face. "The world outside is not the world it should be. Rotten trees are bearing rotten fruit. Many of the people who walk around you are less than dead inside."

"When you leave here, you will leave with bruises. You will leave tired. You will leave _sore._ But you will learn from those bruises and that soreness, so that when someone who _won't_ stop comes along, you'll be ready. Kelsie?"

"Yes, Sens-"

There was a finger pointed at her chest, and she stepped to the side just as Kubo, with a window rattling _kiai,_ screamed-

" **BANG**!"

Kelsie fought to refrain from jumping even though she knew it was coming. Other students still recovered from the shock as silence passed through the room. Kubo gave her an approving look for her reaction speed, then spoke.

"That was a gun pulled by someone who decided they wanted whatever was in your pockets, and was willing to kill you for it."

"They will not fight fair. They will not come at you one at a time, or unarmed, or wait for you to get back up when you fall down. Your wallet is not worth your life. Your purse is not worth your life. Your pride is not worth your life. If you have to choose between running and living, and fighting and dying, then run! I will not shame you for it! There is no point in adhering to honor when the other person has none!"

"HAI, SENSEI!"

Silence for a moment.

"There may come a time where you are offered the rotten fruit, in some fashion or another. You will be told it is fine. That you will find it sweet. And you will only realize the rot is in you when it is far too late. Do not be tempted."

The rest of the session was spent during drills and exercises, medium contact sparring (Kubo sternly reminding the class to _not_ treat it as a street fight, sparing Kelsie a grave stare.) Afterwards, Kelsie dutifully stayed behind to help clean.

Kubo dismissed the last black belt to go home as Kelsie swept. "I heard about what happened yesterday. Good form."

"Thank you, sensei." She said humbly.

He stood quietly, assessing her for several seconds. Several times he opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it.

"Thank you, Kelsie. Be safe on your way home."

She bowed as she exited, trying not to think too hard about what he was might have said.

…

Sensei Dai Kubo could not look back at one of his star pupils as she left.

He was no fool, though he wished he was. It would be much, much easier to be blind, stupid, or both.

Any lustful desire had withered and died along with his wife, but there was no denying that Kelsie was what an admirer of the female body would call attractive. He would never say it outright, but her development of the Ki techniques both offensive and defensive was quick- far too quick, far too fast. He knew that her family was having financial trouble- who wasn't nowadays- and that her getting a job meant some breathing room…

But while he was not a mathematician, there were simple equations of wisdom that had little to no variance. Alcohol plus a poor temper plus an insult equaled violence. Openly flaunted wealth minus defenses plus desperation equaled robbery, and martial talent plus looks plus waitress job equaled a knock on the door from people with the foulest intentions.

They would not expect her to win. They wouldn't _want_ her to win. A new flavor for a depraved feast, dark chocolate among the usual Asian and Caucasian. Another video on fansites. That had been why he had planned to close the dojo, then he was shown in no uncertain terms the consequences of subtly denying the masters of the world a recruitment station, with warnings such tragedies would spread to his _other_ children, one by one. Why they wanted his dojo to remain open, he didn't know. All he knew was that even when he felt he'd lost everything, there was so much more left to lose.

When he was certain that he was alone, he locked the doors to the dojo, closed the blinds, knelt on a mat.

And as tears of shameful helplessness began to pool, he begged anyone who would listen for forgiveness.

…

_"Candidate #4 has everything we want in a new senshi- looks, skill, a secured waitressing job at a well-rated establishment, high ki potential, and variety. Her demonstration of ability in self-defense situations seems to be sufficient enough to either put on a decent showing for one match or possibly win several, which would make her a viable repeat contender. Notable financial difficulties at home would probably assist in getting her to willingly re-enter. Plans to exacerbate this situation are underway to provide incentive."_

_"Her instructor Kubo is at best neutral towards us, but safeguards are in place to prevent his direct forbiddance. Psych evals suggest Candidate would require a direct, unsubtle condemnation to completely reject recruitment, but given past failures requiring forceful recruitment or denial, we would like to handle this one very carefully. Our primary contact has agreed to oversee her recruitment personally. While her ki potential is interesting, we feel she is best suited as a senshi rather than other roles."_

_"Feedback from both longtime spectators, 'sympathy sites', and other forms of V.G. related feedback suggest Candidate would be a much needed boost to our roster. Even if it's made clear she's a reluctant newcomer, she'll boost sympathetic fan sales. The sponsorship paperwork is always underway with her employer, Brandon Jaeger."_

_"Side note: Identifies as lesbian (Psych est. 6 on Kinsey scale) and several brief female 'crushes'. Consider for possible variety in Penalty Rounds?"_

\- Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #4/6, Kelsie Cooper. Recommendation: Senshi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah. I've written chapters for Tiger Chronicles that didn't disturb me this much.


	6. Hatsuko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having been raised in isolation and only let into the outside world for training and missions, Hatsuko finds Santa Destroy to be a hellish inversion of the structured, disciplined life she's led, but has a mission regardless. Despite her instructors' best efforts, she still retains a conscience that makes her question her role in all of this, but codes of obedience and duty to the clan stifle questions about morality. Lost in her thoughts, she wanders a dangerous city...

HATSUKO

SANTA DESTROY, CALIFORNIA

SANTA DESTROY HIGH SCHOOL,

COUNSELOR'S OFFICE

1:34 P.M.

Of all the emotions she thought she'd experience, she never thought she'd feel homesick.

In Santa Destroy High, the girls who _didn't_ dress promiscuously were the ones you had to be wary of. Her outfit was a combination of pragmatism, blending in, and maintaining that critical balance of 'not a prude who needed a good time' and 'I will murder you'. An anime shirt picked up from the Area 51 shop, jean shorts, a simple hair band to keep her hair back in a short ponytail. The two knives in sheathes on either side of her waist went against her training to wear weapons openly, but here, people were far less willing to pick a fight if they thought you'd be a threat.

Back home, there was little time for anything deemed 'frivolous', which was really anything not related to training, maintenance, or preparation for another assignment. Diets were carefully monitored to ensure nutrition, not satisfaction. You went where you were told, did what you were told, and any deviation had to be reported so that it could be assessed whether or not it was warranted.

Being a Genin had _not_ been what Hatsuko had been told it would be. They claimed that once she earned that rank, she would be given a measure of independence, but for so long it felt like there were more ropes around her neck, more pressure, less patience. She had nearly cheered when she was given this assignment in Santa Destroy. Funds to act and live like a teenager ought to, with only a need to report on her task so often.

Then she actually arrived _,_ and she found out why there was so little competition for the job.

The cautionary tales her mother and father told her about America and its lax laws regarding guns _paled_ in comparison to the insanity that was Santa Destroy. She had seen people shot, cut in half, set on fire, thrown out a window, then back inside again. Two cars equipped with hood-mounted weaponry had played chicken on the road, firing wildly with little accuracy, colliding head on with a fireball that had sent her scrambling to cover and had nearby porch-sitters giving cheers of appreciation.

She had later learned this was not only a _quiet_ night in Santa Destroy, but that things had been infinitely worse before the infamous Travis Touchdown had come along and put it on the map as something besides "Top 10 worst cities in the U.S.".

She wasn't at school, or at least, the school she was supposed to be at. Normally, being absent from school was something to avoid, but she had noticed that no one seemed to go to school for an education- at least, not in the typical studies you would expect to see. After the chemistry teacher had called one student at the junior high a "dumbfuck" for playing with a Bunsen burner, the indignant scrawny student in a baseball cap and black death metal clothing had obligingly shot the elder teacher several times in the back with an AR-15, walked to the front of the class, and started giving an in-depth, detailed, step-by-step lecture on how to make various homemade explosives.

The only unusual reaction to this outbreak of violence was that the students actually took notes. Even the school officer, who normally ran away when there was gunfire, stopped in and listened with rapt attention as the self-proclaimed "Dr. Motherfucker" gave a walk-through on the finer arts of explosive property damage, cleaning up so you wouldn't be caught, and the virtues of remote versus timed detonation, crediting some obscure cartoon called 'Bobble in The Big City'.

It was as horrifying as it was informative. Why hadn't her sabotage teachers been this thorough?

Today, however, she was trailing a target, gathering intel on her reaction to an offer. The job details were unsettling when she'd finally got them, but her parents had warned her that a true ninja was not to let their emotions get in the way of a mission. Her clan had expenses, and everyone was expected to do their part. Her part today was tracking the route of a girl the Jahana group had an eye on: a freshman student with a gothic hairstyle, penchant for self-made anime character clothes and doling out concussions and broken bones with a bo staff.

It didn't take a lot to figure out why they were interested in her: Girls who survived Santa Destroy were a deadly kind of beauty, and she knew from her lessons in seduction and flirting on missions that a lot of men favored the 'bad girl' who could kick anyone's ass.

There had been an assassin named exactly that- real name Charlotte Birkin, _Bad Girl._ UAA assassins were, by the nature of their job and the expectations of their fans, eccentric, but she was politely described as psychotic and more frequently 'batshit fucking looney tunes crazy'. Depending on how much she'd had to drink, her answer as to why she spent her free time bludgeoning gimp-masked convicts to death ranged from "losing in a V.G. Match broke me, so I became an assassin" to "They stopped selling my favorite brand of ice cream."

_Maybe she had no reason, so she made one up?_

Her focus returned to the task at hand, but she found herself wishing it would be over soon. She'd heard the stories about what happened to women who signed up with the Jahana Group. None of them ever ended happily, and to be a part of it up close made her stomach uneasy. She waited at the end of the hall that led to the Counselor's Office, listening intently. One of the Jahana Group's reps had gone in there, and Hatsuko knew it wasn't to offer a position as a junior researcher.

_You're just doing observation. That's all. If she agrees or disagrees, that's on her._

Several male students had made passes at her, wisely backing off when they saw her hands go to the hilts of her twin knives. That at least allowed her to focus. So far, the target had been fairly subdued for someone who lived in Santa Destroy, though she had to admit the multiple concussions she'd dealt out with a bo staff were impressive.

Another point for home. An irate instructor could give you a stinging whack with a shinai, assign additional tasks, or make you do more exercises, but they couldn't seriously injure or kill you. The Shinryu Clan expected careful use of all resources, and that included trainees and Genin. An abusive instructor could find themselves on the receiving end of an impromptu poison identification test administered in the back, courtesy of a master. The adults here had no such restraints, and only fear of mutually assured destruction kept Santa Destroy as a whole from devolving into a total free-for-all.

"NO. NO. NO." Came a female voice from the counselor's office. "NO, FUCK NO."

There went any hopes of a swift resolution to this. It was no surprise when Rina stormed out moments later, a look of fury in her eyes- customized Japanese style schoolgirl outfit fluttering and pigtails trailing behind her angrily as she stomped out, bo in hand. Two male students backpedaled as she stormed out the doors, clearly wary of her reputation.

Hatsuko knew enough about how she fought to give her wide berth- a needless injury was not what she needed while in Santa Destroy. Fortunately, Rina was much less aware of someone following at a distance, especially when that someone was female, inconspicuously dressed, and traveling via rooftop.

The Jahana Group had reasons for tracking lots of people. Some to recruit, some to undermine. One thing she had been warned about was not to go anywhere near the Townsend Mansion, now owned by Travis Touchdown, the "Crownless King" beam katana wielding lunatic who had an anime-themed mecha commissioned just in case someone else brought a mecha to a duel.

Hatsuko wasn't sure who would win in an all-out war between the UAA and the Jahana Group, but she was pretty sure everyone else would lose- ninja, senshi, assassin, and civilians…

Her target paused in front of a house, and she paused in her stride, observing her from behind a car as she hunched down. Rina was just staring at the old, white-paneled house, not moving, as an elderly woman approached at a waddling pace.

Odd. Was she thinking of buying the place for herself? She noted the strange attraction to the old building… she seemed almost wistful.

Then the old woman began talking to her. She wasn't close enough to hear what was going on, and carrying a microphone in Santa Destroy was a bad idea- lots of people had whispers they didn't want anyone else to hear. Even the accusation of knowing things you weren't supposed to know was a death-mark.

It was clearly not a pleasant conversation from their body language. The old crone's was condescending and mocking, her target's was irate and disgusted. Then the old woman gave Rina a sickeningly demeaning pat on the cheek, before turning to walk toward Hatsuko.

She ducked out of sight, thinking rapidly. An old woman seeing her couldn't amount to much, but if Rina was to follow her, start a fight or argument and then found out she was hiding-

"Hey, **BITCH**." For a moment, Hatsuko feared she'd been spotted, and reached for a flashbang when she heard a sound like a gunshot…

Well, that was _one_ issue resolved.

The old woman was sprawled out on the overgrown lawn, screaming in incoherent rage. Rina held her bo in a baseball stance, looking down at the fallen woman a few moments before running towards her home.

It struck Hatsuko as odd, and not for the normal reasons. Elsewhere there was still a taboo about striking one's elders, here the most unusual thing about Rina's behavior was that she didn't immediately follow up with several more strikes and frisk her victim for valuables.

She snuck off as soon as she was convinced that the older woman was too dazed to notice her, preparing to give her report. Compassion was seen as a weakness here, too, handed out only to those one intimately trusted to have their back.

Besides, if Rina's choice of targets was any indication, the old woman probably had it coming…

…

Of all the things drilled into her during her briefing, none were more emphasized than one very key detail, and that was to _not_ piss off Miranda Jahana, head of the Jahana group and with a long, long history of people 'disappearing' if they ran afoul of her.

Why she would be reporting directly to her about a single girl that was hardly a martial arts pro- bojutsu skill aside- was utterly beyond her. She recalled the "rock observation" exercise, where a trainee was to observe everything and anything that might happen to a small stone monument. The exercise was to hammer home that the mission might seem unimportant, even idiotic, but it was a _mission_ nevertheless.

As she recited the information to the figure on her computer screen, she sorely missed the rock.

The rock did not glare at you with abyssal eyes, flawless blonde hair cascading like molten gold, an Asian beauty kept ageless through cutting-edge surgeries and pampered treatments. The rock was not known for dealing with threats by moving in the blink of an eye and delivering precise, measured strikes to your vital organs, spanning the ordeal of your death just long enough to allow you to understand how screwed you were. The rock could not whisper your name to someone and then expect you homeless, blacklisted, and dead- or worse- within a day.

"Target showed little deviation from her route to and from Santa Destroy High." Hatsuko said, keeping her voice even in her native Japanese. "On Thursdays and Fridays, she is usually accompanied by a boy named Alex Cross, a boy training under Travis Touchdown."

The woman's steely gaze gave an almost imperceptible wince at the reigning UAA champion. "You're certain?" her voice was icy and sharp, with a hint of irritation.

"Photos 1 through 6 in the file I attached show a recent sparring match with wooden katana. As Travis Touchdown has never been known to use non-lethal weaponry in a UAA match, and appeared to be holding back from his full strength, I conclude he's taken him on as an apprentice."

She saw the eyes flash over what must have been the photos on her side, with a notable look of displeasure. "Do I want to know what the two… _women_ were doing there?"

Hatsuko took a breath. "I overheard them openly discussing future sexual scenarios… I think part of Travis' unorthodox regimen is teaching his student to ignore distractions."

A deep sigh escaped the deadly blonde's lips. "Of _course._ " Deep irritation, albeit not with her. "Back to the girl. You mentioned 'unusual displays of force'?"

"Yes. I looked into the history of recent blunt force trauma associated with the target. Based off my personal experience with wood bojutsu poles and the injuries inflicted, the fact her weapon didn't set off metal detectors at the school, and the amount of strength needed to cause said injuries, I suspect magic use is at play here, both in accelerating her blows and reinforcing her weapon against breakage."

Miranda's eyebrow shot up. "They have _metal detectors_ in the Santa Destroy schools?"

The genin pursed her lips cautiously. "It’s common in U.S. schools. Here, it’s mostly so people know if a student's armed. Most students prefer to openly carry a weapon to discourage attack."

"You can't be…" her condescending tone cut off as her eyes looked over what might be the report, and several more photos. "…you are serious." She finished flatly, shaking her head. Miranda looked at something, blinked several times. "Is that kid wearing an _assault rifle_ while teaching the class… is that a teacher on the floor?..."

Hatsuko nodded. "Francis Keye, aka ' Dr. Motherfucker' (Miranda's mouth opened wordlessly,) the local supplier of improvised explosive devices at the Junior High School. (she mouthed an almost inaudible "What.") Mr. Ulysses had insulted him a few minutes prior, and after killing him, (“What?!”) Francis gave a lecture on how to make, arm, and detonate explosives, focusing on distractions and property damage."

"Oh _what_ _the fuck._ " Miranda said as she read over the notes, shaking her head. Hatsuko decided against noting it was probably the most informative and useful thing she'd learned since deployment to Santa Destroy.

The black suited businesswoman took several deep breaths. "So, the target is consistently alone on Mondays through Wednesdays, when this 'Alex' is training?"

"Yes ma'am."

Miranda's eyes shifted as she read and re-read several key lines, then for the first time in their brief history, she smiled.

The last time someone had smiled at her like that, a fellow trainee had tried to stab her to death during drills. It had been a bad reaction to some pain-relieving herbs that had driven her into a hallucinatory frenzy, but this… the smile Miranda made radiated sheer malice.

"Excellent work. Your superiors will be noted on your commendable performance. Stand by for further instructions. We may have further tasks for you."

The video went dead, but Hatsuko made sure the communications were complete shut off, then went into the bathroom and locked the door regardless as she fought to get her heart rate under control.

A ninja was to do whatever task they were assigned with efficiency and skill- emotions were distracting things that narrowed your vision and dulled the senses. Compassion and pity, they were told, were deadly things they had to learn to shut out… but so were bloodlust and sadism. There was a cruelty in those eyes that no drug-addled madness could ever replicate.

…

Walking alone through Santa Destroy at night was a death wish, but even impending death sounded preferable to dwelling on whatever Miranda had planned for her target.

Somewhere in the distance, gunfire rang out from multiple locations, and she had yet to discern what the occasion was- sometimes it was a gang war or a drive-by, other times it was some drunk doing excessive pest control. Residents were known to just fire guns into the sky in celebration, or for no reason at all.

She took to the rooftops, made a game of it, trying to remain unseen as she darted here and there, observing and watching, telling herself that she was looking for any additional evidence, anything useful in her mission…

Except her mission was _done._ All she was doing now was running, running away from that hotel room where she sold a girl she didn't know into who-knows-what. And so she watched, a voyeur in the shadows, spying on the world so long forbidden.

A little girl cried on a balcony of a two story house as two angry adult voices screamed at each other inside.

A trio of street walkers shared a lighter between them, lighting up cigarettes under a flickering street light, clothing covering just enough to tantalize potential customers.

A drunk staggered aimlessly down the road, shouting at shadows, taking a drink from a bottle in a brown bag. Sometimes he sat down, muttering angrily to himself. Other times, he just cried a few minutes before plodding off further down the street.

Two men embraced at a door, laughing happily, going inside a well-lit house.

She walked into a Burger Suplex, ordered some nuggets, fries, and a soda. Her fitness instructor would kill her if Santa Destroy didn't.

Santa Destroy used to be so much worse, she'd been told. A beach that necrotized your skin if you went swimming. No sanitation standards for the restaurants. Nowadays there were sides and territories, as opposed to a free-for-all where everyone fought for scraps.

What hadn't changed was the main source of entertainment here- the UAA assassin duels, and tours of where they had taken place. Assassination, she had been taught, was supposed to be a clinical, precise, subtle thing. Surgery to excise a tumor.

Here it was flashy, loud, and explosive. Beam katana duels. Giant Mecha. Laser satellites. Two people fighting to the death for the glory of being the number one assassin. A throne and crown with hundreds seeking to claim it for their own. To her, it didn't sound better or worse than the Variable Geo tournament… it was just another flavor of awful.

_Awful._

She was taught 'the world is what it is', and that you had to learn to accept it for what it was, not what you wished it _could_ be. This was supposed to teach ninja acceptance of the unfair and the insane as just factors to be planned around, exploited or avoided.

To the ninja masters, it sounded calm and serene.

To Hatsuko, it sounded like shrugging and giving up.

Sell your clan's work to the highest bidder, do whatever dirty deeds needed doing, without the need for the UAA to get involved. Her teachers derided the flashy methods of the UAA as frivolous as the depravity of the Variable Geo tournament, and no doubt the UAA derided her clan's methods as outdated and lacking style.

_Couldn't we just stop raping and killing each other? Just for like one year?_

She laughed bitterly, the sound all too foreign to her. No. The world at large had grown addicted to this drug, like the unfortunate ninja who became dependent on pain medication used to treat injuries back before the alchemic healing arts were refined, or those who just used them now to try and escape the world for a little while.

She walked along the streets for a bit, not really knowing where she was going, finally winding up at Destroy Stadium.

Two assassins had met their end here at the hands of Travis Touchdown. She wondered if there was any place in Santa Destroy that didn't have some sordid combination of murders, suicides, and murder-suicides.

Not that she could blame anyone, as she hopped the fence to go inside. She had heard there were still places you could go in the world where you could get away from most of the violence and violation, where you could wrap yourself in some semblance of another world and pretend all the awful things were far, far away. In Santa Destroy, the awfulness ran up, grabbed you, and screamed in your face until you either escaped or became part of it.

She gagged at the stench of waste near the restrooms, wandered among the homeless and drug addicts trying to find a place to sleep. Some kept to themselves, others kept in small groups, huddled around camp stoves or garbage fires. No one here seemed interested in some idiot girl wandering around in a jacket and jeans.

Trudging along, she looked hesitantly and cautiously at the dimly illuminated faces of society's damned. The failed assassin who managed to get away with only an arm cut off. The job seeker whose career went belly up. The druggies who chased the feeling of that first high that made them feel a little better. The girls who turned to prostitution to make ends meet, until they became a walking library of STDs and traumas.

This was where dreams went to die.

She finally found a little section of the stadium where few people gathered, save for one elderly black man, clad in tattered khakis and several threadbare shirts, who sat slumped against a corner, sitting on layered towels, his right leg ending in a cut-off pants leg. Failed assassin, someone caught in a crossfire, she didn't know.

The light pollution here was almost thin enough you could see the stars…

"You seem lost." Said the one-legged man, a heavy Jamaican accent in his voice.

"I'm not." She replied coolly.

"Then that's a very sad thing, lady. If you're here and you're not lost, you're either in more trouble than anyone can help you out of, or you're about to find it. Might want to get lost soon, you know. Not everyone here sleeps at night."

She flashed the blade of a dagger, unsheathing it just enough to make him understand she was _not_ defenseless.

"So the little kitten has claws. Be careful not to get them stuck in the wrong person, here." the man mused.

She turned back to the sky.

"You are lost, aren't you? Maybe you have a place to _stay_ , but you're still lost."

Hatsuko looked down, it was forbidden to share info about herself, to show emotion, but here, in this _insanity…_

"I think I did a bad thing." She said finally. "I hurt someone I didn't know, and I don't know how badly."

The man laughed. "A lot of that going around these days. If it's any consolation, in this town, if you aren't hurting someone, you're fixing to get hurt. I'm not saying it's wrong or right, but it is what it is."

She laughed bitterly. "Not the first time I've heard that." She turned to face him. "So why are you here?"

He cracked a wry smile. "It's not like I can go joggin'. But you mean how I got here. Same old story. I had a job, I had a wife, I had children. Then one day, I lose the job. Not enough business. So we plan to move. But my children get shot. They go to the hospital, we pay all we can to try to save them, and they die. We lose our home, we find a new home here. I get shot, and my wife has to bring me food and water. Then, she starts coughing, worse and worse every day, and the last thing she brings me is this-" he indicated a sturdy metal crutch.

"She wanted to fall asleep in my lap, one last time. Coughing all the time. She's buried under that mound, out there. Some of the younger folk helped me do it. She used to pitch a mean curve, so we let her rest in a place where she can work her magic forever."

Hatsuko felt her stomach fill with something heavy, just at the way he talked about it as if it was a fact of life.

"I keep trying to die, but the people here keep bringing me food and water, because I listen to them. They listen to me. And we try to make sense of it all."

"…can you?" she asked, in a tone more afraid than she wanted.

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Life's funny like that." He shrugged.

Except that wasn't funny at all.

"So you know why I'm here. What're _you_ doing here?" he asked.

She took a breath. "I've done a lot of things I'm really not proud of just because I was told to, so I'm taking a long hard look at my life." It was as close as she could get to honesty without endangering her clan.

The man laughed. "An admirable thing to do, but I gotta say, I think you could have chosen a better place to do it."

"Quiet here." She countered.

"That it is." Conceded the old man. "That it is."

Silence passed for a little while.

"I just…" she began, clenching her fists, "…it feels like there are no right choices anymore. You either do what you think is right and die for it, or you do what you know is wrong and you live until you can't stand to live anymore."

"It's the way the world's going. You ever heard of Nathan Copeland?" she shook her head. "He was once a homeless boy, whose mother and father were so busy working, they were never around for him, so he started singing. About his plight, about his struggles, about everything. And he sang it in such a way people listened, and he got a contract, he got himself a mansion, a home where everything he ever wanted was there. Except for mom and dad, who wound up in an early grave. And do you know what?"

Hatsuko turned, listening.

"He fucking hated it all. He went on the record before he died, that he was gaining a religious following, people hearing his music and believing it was the gospel, but they were learning the wrong lessons. Hearing the wrong things. He wanted _change,_ and everyone else just wanted to listen to him sing, because hearing it made them feel good. It's sorta funny and sad how two people can listen to the same thing but hear it very differently, isn't it?"

"How did he die?" Hatsuko asked out of morbid curiosity.

"Travis. Died smiling, begging for deliverance from the 'Crownless King'. You know, there's a lot of opinions about his final messages, about the world being all glitter and no soul. Some people think it was just him not being able to buy his mom and dad back from the dead, but I?"

Hatsuko paused in rapt attention.

"I think he had something with the word glitter. Glitter is like a goddamn arts and craft STD. You use it once, and it gets _everywhere._ Fake sparkles, making stuff look shiny when it's not. And you know what I see when I can make my way to a tv? _Glitter._ Glitter everywhere. People trying to make murdering and raping look better, pouring on the glitter, trying to make it shinier and brighter so we don't step back and ask ourselves things like 'oh fuck, we just watched a man die! We just watched someone's daughter get beaten and raped while we cheered! Why are we doing this? What the fuck is wrong with us?' But we don't do that, because we've been told glitter is good."

She blinked.

"So we rub it on ourselves. Get the damn stuff everywhere. In our ears, our mouths, our eyes and it makes us blind to what we were, what we _could_ be, and when someone does wash the glitter out of their eyes and starts yelling that we need to stop, then the people selling the glitter put them down because it's bad for business. For all they care, we can go blind, wandering through life seeing only fake sparkles, because when you _finally_ wash off the glitter? You have to see what's underneath. And if that ever happened to enough people, there goes Variable Geo. There goes the UAA. There goes the _economy._ We got so much glitter on and in us, if we ever got rid of all the glitter, there might not be enough left of _us_. Catch-22, Electric Boogaloo."

The old man sighed. "We were made in God's image. Then we became whores for fucking _glitter_."

Damn.

Every piece of wisdom or advice given to her by her parents, her teachers, her masters… it was all to make her better at accomplishing her mission. It was measured medicine to keep her going long enough so that the job- whatever that may be- was done. This… this was something else. There was a refreshing if horrifying frankness in the words of someone who had nothing to accomplish, no hidden motives.

Glitter. A little more funds in the Shinryu treasury. A little more cred for future employers. To what _end?_ An endless history of killing and being killed in the name of the highest bidder? Tracking and tagging girls almost her age so that CEOs and businesswomen from hell could do whatever they wanted?

She had to find the exit to this insanity. There had to be an exit besides poison or seppuku. There just had to be something _real…_

_"Despair, the end of the world_

_I hear the rising phoenix in my dreams"_

The old man started as a boy- a young child- on the mound began to sing, loudly and clearly. "I didn't know we were having a _performance_ tonight." He said, bracing himself up on the crutch.

_"And the virgin child made her wish upon a star_

_That night her mother talks no moooooore"_

It was sad. It was haunting. But it was real.

_"Cape of Hope, the end of the dream_

_A shiny fish splashes in a stream"_

People were standing up, hobbling to look out towards the mound, where a little boy's silhouette could be barely seen amongst the gloom. What brought _this_ on, she didn't know, but she didn't want it to stop.

_"And the virgin child loses her heart and soul_

_That night her mother's eyes see no moooooore"_

"That's… that's Dr. Peace's last song. The one he sang before he died." The old man said, awestruck.

_"When the wind blows_

_The virgin child's corpse sings a song_

_Such a pretty melody, never heard befoooooore!"_

The lyrics were morbid and terrifying to think about, but the boy sang honestly. It wasn't some meager rote recitation of words and melody, it was a requiem for hopes and dreams discarded for reality, and her eyes started to water.

_"No more lullabies_

_The virgin… child smiles from… Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell!"_

There was no instrumental to back him up, no spotlight to shine down on him, and yet his voice made it real, made the pain visible and understandable like it was something to be _acknowledged,_ not drowned in parables and sake.

Silence followed, and then he began to walk away. Then the cheers began, a deafening roar of approval that Destroy Stadium would never see again, and Hatsuko found herself crying and clapping in spite of herself.

The little boy jerked, stunned by the response, then, shakily, made a bow. "Thank you, thank you… mighty kind of you…"

It didn't answer her questions, it didn't make the insanity of the world go away, it didn't regrow the old man's leg or cure addictions.

But it wasn't sure as hell wasn't glitter.

…

_"Candidate #5 comes with Miranda Jahana's personal recommendation for gradual induction into our covert ops, having proven to have the psychological profile and skillset needed for our clandestine operations. Her clan members are amendable to gradually training her to suit our interests in exchange for non-interference in latter matters. Hatsuko is professional, but has shown a noted interest in the world outside of her clan."_

_"Of the ki techniques, ninjutsu is still more or less a mystery in how it operates, with theories on some use of mana included in the arts. Hatsuko is still a low-ranking Genin, but if nothing else her acting as our agent could provide us with a means of training future agents in methods both mundane and supernatural. Suggest employing her for future observation of skills and reactions."_

__\- Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #5/6, Hatsuko Gushiken. Recommendation: Covert Ops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I really like that song?
> 
> So now we have a ninja, and stories overlapping. Can ya guess where this is going, kiddies?


	7. Isaac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Magic training, a plethora of mental issues, and an inability to tell where prank wars end and terrorism begins are what makes Isaac Jourhein a... memorable character. Loyal to his friends but with blinders to the world around him securely in place, Isaac finds guidance in his developing talents and the lessons given by a certain animated clown who only airs after midnight. While his more violent experiments might escape the notice of the law, friends and family, they haven't gone completely unnoticed...

ISAAC

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Faust Bros. Apartments, Apt. 420

7:59 A.M.

It was hard to believe that somewhere under the tangle of blankets, more blankets, assorted sock puppets, and a _Brave Little Toaster_ anime-style body-pillow, there was a twelve year old boy.

The boy with nearly chalk-white skin and a mess of black hair snored somewhat cutely and innocently, feet on the pillows, head at the footrest. His hands still covered in sock puppets themed after an angel and devil, on the right and left, respectively- the aftermath on a long debate about the virtues of turning the other cheek versus leaving flashbang traps in a bully's locker.

The room was a haphazard mess of implements both arcane and modern. A table with various burners and tubes occupied most of the space, off to the side, another work bench with an assortment of tools, scraps of cloth and metal here and there lay parallel to the bed.

Next to the alchemy table, thankfully dormant, was an eclectic menagerie of books- a large journal labeled "Blk Mgc Notes", another journal labeled "Bad Ideas", another, larger notebook next to that labeled "Really Bad Ideas". "Italian Cooking", "Advanced Japanese", "Alchemy Fun!" in marker on the spine of a word book. "Anarchist's cookbook, 6th edition." "Enchantment Foul and Fair", and the "Big Book o' Blackmail Material".

At the foot of the bookcase was a duffel bag, labeled in white paint against the black material, "Isaac's Sack O' Harmless Fun", and one look at the odd jumble of wire-ridden, foul-smelling packages within would attest the bag had been deliberately and maliciously mislabeled.

On a bedstand, an alarm clicked as the time changed to 8 A.M., and for twenty-five seconds, Rossoni's beginning of _The William Tell Overture,_ the soft music so associated with dawn rising in western cartoons played, softly and gently to honor the rising sun.

Then the audio abruptly switched to that of the beach scene from _Saving Private Ryan,_ a howler monkey orgy, police, ambulance, tornado and air raid sirens, a drunken fireworks display gone wrong with the requisite screaming and cursing, a _significantly_ drunker Louisiana street band attempting to play _Reefer Man,_ and the winning entries of the annual _Best Fake Orgasm Contest (Helium Aided Edition)_ played all at once at maximized volume, telling young Isaac Jourhein it was time to start another day, as well as triggering the Vietnam flashbacks of the widower a floor below. (A feat which in and of itself was impressive, as the widower had never been in Vietnam.)

Isaac slapped a hand on the modified alarm clock, and the cacophony came to an abrupt, merciful end. Friday morning, and he could hear the muffled cursing of various other tenants throughout the apartments as they experienced the joy and wonder that was the Jourhein Wake-Up call.

He was really enjoying the dream where he, his two friends, and the girl-who-was-a-friend-and-maybe-more-we're-just-taking-this-slow-because-we're-twelve fought a Undead Dragon Zombie Ninja Cyborg Death God, both sides politely taking turns in dealing out various elemental forms of pain, divine blessings, infernal powers, and good old fashioned blunt trauma.

Instead, they were facing a much less merciful monster together.

Junior High.

The apartment was okay, truth be told. Dad and Mom both had jobs- Programmer and Therapist respectively- but there wasn't a lot of extra dough to go around due to Grandpa Sahgace needing to go into assisted living. Early onset Alzheimer's, held in check with potent potions that were expensive (and illegal) to make and required delicate brewing processes. Sahgace had made enough of a stockpile to slow the disease, but it was slowly, surely eroding him, and he had to ration what little he had left.

His mother, Rafaela, gave him a look through narrowed eyes as he walked into the kitchen, his father Xavier was already at work. "You're changing that alarm before you go to bed." She said icily- it wasn't a question.

Rafaela Jourhein was a woman with long black hair, a very slim figure, and a kind, soothing face to match an angelic personality. She was what many men would call a MILF, or at least one particular less-than-gentleman had, along with suggesting Rafaela should be one of the new senshi. Rafaela had ignored him until he tried to slap her ass. Then she floored him in a single punch, and that was the end of that nonsense.

Isaac had felt needing the jaw wired back into place was punishment enough, so he only used half the usual dose of laxatives and hallucinogenics in the 'get well soon' cheesecake bites he'd sent. (It made for an amusing news broadcast when the harasser stripped down to his ruined underwear in the street, screaming about how monkeys were trying to devour his brain.)

His mother was an angel. One that could go from the cherubic messenger of hope and healing to Old Testament "fiery wheels within wheels" if she had to, and Isaac did _not_ want to mess with her unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Okay, okay…" Isaac conceded, hearing the 'do-not-push-this' tone in her voice. "But if you ask me, after some of the shit he's pulled, old man Bragston _deserves_ to crap his bed once in a while."

"Maybe Bragston deserves it," his mother said as she poured coffee into a thermos. "but everyone else in the building doesn't. We've already had several people threaten to call the police. Change it."

A few weeks ago, Bragston had heard about his mother's stance on the tournaments, and had torn into her, banging on their door despite her remaining firm, screaming epithets and insults. Isaac had heard about Bragston, how his wife lived in a thankless marriage with someone who couldn't accept the concept of aging women and wanted eternal skin-deep college beauty, who denied her warmth, love, gratitude, and even a hand to hold when cancer took her- his mother had to fill that role at the hospital, listening to Claudia's last regrets.

So Isaac had decided to become Bragston Hawell's _**special friend**._

This one-sided relationship decision involved playing all manner of fun games with Bragston, namely breaking into his apartment and practicing a wide array of subtle, temporary, but hilarious enchantments, like making the sound on his TV go down one click every twenty seconds, having the faucet in his shower turn towards cold sharply after it was turned hot for two minutes, and strategic, stealthy placement of inflatable clowns with a minor enchantment to giggle when Bragston was within five feet of them.

That last one made for a wonderful surprise when walking into a pitch black apartment at night (courtesy of his leaving every light off out of power conservation) and finding a new inflatable friend in the bathroom, welcoming him with a friendly laugh and warning written in fake blood. At least, Isaac thought it was wonderful, judging by the screams.

It was working, though. Now Bragston was so concerned about what the last clown messenger had meant by "hear the black crow calling the moon" and assuring the police he wasn't crazy, that he had no time at all to waste on lecturing people on whether or not their beliefs were antiquated.

A loud cry of horror and surprise came from below, and Isaac suppressed a smile as he realized the fake blood pills he'd crushed up and hid in Bragston's showerhead had not gone unnoticed. It was good to feel appreciated.

He got himself a breakfast of champions- namely a cola and a bowl of "Destroyman Strawberry Bloodshed-Os" (The slogan 'Buy my fucking cereal or I'll kill you in your sleep' was refreshingly straightforward, even with the celebrity in question twice dead…) A alert mind was a secure mind, after all, and he would need caffeine and sugar to jumpstart his brain.

"You're working at the restaurant tonight, right honey?" asked his mother as she went towards her room to do a long-distance session with a client. "Don't let them push you too hard."

"Never do!" Isaac responded. Working at his age was unusual, even more so to be working at a restaurant, but while his family wasn't poor, anything he wanted beyond bare necessities had to come out of Isaac's own pockets. Chemicals, herbs, electronics and various tools were expensive, and the contacts he had that would get him said ingredients took their own cut as a convenience fee.

The internet connection they had at home was heavily monitored by his parents, so concerned that he would see something that would drive him somehow crazier than he was already. Even if he did bypass the password, ordering parts and ingredients online to a single address would raise questions about why someone needed that many inflatable clowns, pure sodium, ball bearings, hallucinogenic compounds, and basil from South America.

Working at the restaurant was a suitable gig, for now. Later, he wasn't quite sure what he would do… or what he could do without alienating his family. Gramps had warned him never to use magic in public unless his life depended on it, so there went making a market for alchemics and magic items. The world seemed to be so obsessed with the two tournaments to the point they bled into everything else, a fact his and his friend's parents seemed to decry, often behind shut doors and in lowered voices. That meant a lot of job options were out unless he wanted to alienate his family _and_ friends.

They were terrible things to think about, but Isaac had been assured by his old pastor that the UAA tournaments were a covert way of handling dangerous criminals who couldn't control their impulses, and the Variable Geo was so much like pro-wrestling. Tasteless pornography, but scripted, rehearsed, planned to attract an audience.

"After all," the old, greying chubby Santa Claus of a pastor had explained calmly to Isaac, who was only just beginning to calm down. "some people need… outlets for sinful urges. And in the long run, it's better for the world if murderers are allowed to kill each other, and for fake sexual assault to be used to placate those who struggle with such urges than to just allow them to run out of control. It's not a perfect system," admitted Pastor Dante with a sad shrug, "but it's much better than the alternative."

That and some grape juice had put a horrified eight-year old Isaac at ease, and he felt a sense of wisdom- like knowing Santa Claus wasn't real. Mom and Dad had left that church some months later. A pity, really. Dante knew how to convince you to believe in God while making you realize the only demons you had to worry about were in your mind…

He downed his breakfast, washed up in the bathroom, and donned his preferred outfit- jeans and a simple black shirt with the image of an 8-bit wizard in blue robes, yellow hat, and darkened face on the front, before grabbing a grey backpack labeled "Bag o' Holding +3.1415926", his wallet (painfully bare), and a lighter.

The lighter was redundant now, with what he’d learned. It was more of a risk than boon to carry it, but it reminded him of a reassuring fact: bad things could be resolved. Permanently.

Locking the door behind him, he bounced down the steps two at a time, complimented a fuming Bragston on his new hair color, and headed out into the streets, narrowly dodging a dog-walker (and pausing to playfully pet the leashed dogs) as he turned and began walking to the bus stop.

He wouldn't normally have this kind of spring in his step for going to school, but it was the last week before summer vacation, and that meant time to do any number of things more productive than sitting in class all day- hanging out with friends, working at the restaurant, working on his magic studies, seeing if he could actually drive Bragston crazy, or just staying up late to watch Bobble- now _that_ was educational. The brightly colored clown had episodes dedicated to all sorts of fun things, from the mundane art of how to get things kids weren't supposed to get, to more focused and practical lessons, like how to burn down a house and make it look like an accident!

That had come in handy, when he had to deal with-

_Don't think about bad things_

-he had trusted the man, his parents had trusted him, they all trusted him-

_Bad things are distractions_

-and in the end he'd smiled and shrugged, and said "well, _I_ had fun-"

_**Don't think about bad things.** _

He forced himself to focus on the _task at hand._ Yes. That was a lot better than thinking about bad things that had been resolved. _Permanently._

St. Palazzo Middle School wasn't the best junior high around, but it wasn't the worst by far, either. Isaac had heard stories of certain institutions- mainly in California- where someone like him would either find a niche all their own or wind up dead, drowned in a urinal. St. Palazzo's made an effort to try and have some modicum of decency- discussion of the tournaments or viewing them on campus was verboten, and any use of weaponry of any kind was grounds for expulsion and arrest.

That didn't mean not learning to watch your back couldn't end very badly. Some students just didn't care about suspension or expulsion, or had parents that could get incidents swept under the rug. Your options for avoiding being a victim boiled down to being as unnoticeable as possible, part of a clique, or having a reputation that dissuaded bullies.

Isaac himself had the advantage of a very _special_ reputation. There had been an incident in 3rd grade where a teacher's use of unprovoked physical discipline had spurred him to express his displeasure with a pair of scissors. There had been other incidents of course, where he felt a bully or some random asshole needed a lesson in manners, but it had been his enthusiastic reaction to a teacher slapping a girl to the ground and kicking her that earned him a two-year ban from any sharp objects whatsoever and the now ex-teacher an eyepatch for life.

That same girl, long blonde hair flowing like honey ran out to meet him as he walked towards the bus stop. Ashley Youngblood, 12 years old, with cute freckles, amethyst eyes and a laugh that made him feel butterflies in his stomach. The wiser of them both, give or take a weakness for anime and kittens that could have her dissolve into indecipherable pseudo-Japanese, baby-talk, or both. Sahgace had taught her white magic, and it suited her well- the kind of warmth you felt across the room.

Her offense to that teacher, a Mr. Cash, had been to come to the defense of another student who had been wrongly accused. Cash had somehow decided that was worth assault and battery, and Isaac had decided that Cash needed a lesson in manners. The school board had made him go through extensive psychological screening (which his grandfather had to coach him on how to fake remorse) and gave Cash a bad reference.

Some distance behind her at the bus stop was Landon Gates, red hair, green eyes, fairer skin. He wasn't as tall as he was, but he was a lot more confident and, Isaac had to admit, cooler and more confident, like he was a protagonist out of a _shonen_ anime. Sahgace had taught him the way of the Red Mage, which meant a Spartan regimen of meditation on white, black, and physical exercise.

The magic was only a secondary attribute to what made him heroic- Landon was not shy about his hatred of the tournaments as evil, and no amount of trips to the counselor's office or beatings from bullies could subvert that fact, nor did said beatings manage to coerce him into using magic in public. He’d had a much better time in school once he’d gotten over needing to rant about his views, though…

Landon's own friend-that's-more-than-a-friend-and-a-blind-man-could-see-it was Tiffany Moon, short brown hair, glasses and mousy, she still had this cuteness that even on a purely platonic level invoked feelings of "I'm taking her home with me". Sahgace had taught her Time Magic, arguably the most difficult- and dangerous- arcane lore of them all. She was arguably the smartest and wisest of the four, a quality that was great when homework was assigned, but had its downside in the way of her presenting uncomfortable facts and questions, things that Isaac had no rebuttal for.

She would point out new, openly-marketed industrial Ki-suppressors for secure locations like banks and prisons, and articles suggesting the arenas would be fitted with said devices, and it made Isaac wonder _why_ those were necessary if his pastor was telling the truth. Or why there was an active campaign warning against the "pseudo-science" of white magic and alchemy, but nothing warning about the destructive power of black magic. It had been these questions and being close to Landon that had made her a target for everything from nasty rumors to some girls outright assaulting her.

Landon had come to her aid and got a black eye for his troubles, parents were called, and while some token detentions and suspensions were thrown around, the administrators didn't have the clout against the bullies' parents to make an expulsion stick.

It wasn't too long after that these bullies started to suffer accidents that always occurred when Isaac's friends were well-accounted for. It was still a topic of some speculation as to how several hornet's nests were found in one girl's room, rigged with small fireworks to agitate them when she entered, or how flashbangs found their way into so many lockers without the cameras seeing anything. After a few hospitalizations, the bullying died down to very quietly whispered rumors.

Isaac himself wasn't really sure where he stood on a lot of issues, but he did know anyone who messed with his friends got one non-lethal warning before he looked into more permanent (and messy) methods of conflict resolution. One asshole, Tony, had been slow on the uptake. Isaac made sure that the second surprise he sent was less vague- and far more unpleasant, identical to the hilarious surprises he'd left out for porch pirates that released a combination of tear gas and hallucinogenic gas.

_No one fucks with me or mine and gets away with it._

" _Konnichiwa!_ " shouted the blonde-haired girl before slamming into him in a glomp, nearly knocking him off his feet.

It had taken him a good while to learn how to brace and react so that her playful tackles didn't send them both tumbling to the ground, and it had been embarrassing to be knocked flat by a girl shorter than him.

_But when she glomped she was in a good mood and it meant all the world to him_

"Hello to you too, Ashie." Isaac said with a grin, setting her down, turning to Landon and Tiffany. "Greetings, my fellow outcasts. I take it the peanut gallery hasn't been giving you trouble lately?"

Landon shook his head. "Not a word one. Maybe they're actually coming around… or at least they'll stop punching me in the face. They still don't know who put a bomb in that one guy's locker, though."

Isaac suppressed a smile. It was a _flashbang,_ not a more serious explosive, and all the asshole got was tinnitus and a ruined pair of pants, but those details could wait until the statute of limitations expired.

Tiffany smiled, but it was a forced lift of the lips _._ "A few whispers, but nothing I'm not used to." she shrugged. "You'd think it'd be worse, with… that coming up."

And like that, the mood shifted somber, his friend's faces darkening as Isaac held his tongue in check. He looked to Ashley, and saw that bubbly glee replaced with a solemn look, looking downcast. The last time he tried to offer Pastor Dante's explanation had not gone over well at all… and he valued their friendship more than he valued being right.

Finally, something to break the tension came up. "You guys wanna come see Gramps over the summer? I know he'd love to see his 'apprentices' again."

That got them out of _moping_ , at least, with Tiffany's head perking up- she had been a particularly apt pupil, persevering through the maddening exercises needed for Time Magic. "Oh! Yeah, is he finally… getting used to it?"

The bottom line was that Gramps hated assisted living, hated having to rely on nurses to remind him it was time to eat, hated realizing he was becoming too forgetful to do research, hated how his mind was failing him at 67. The best mood he'd shown towards the facility was _tolerance_. Isaac had promised to help brew some more of the potion, but he'd been dismissive of the idea- the herbs were still growing in Sahgace's private garden, it would be months before they were ready to be harvested and provide a few meager vials more of the potion that kept the disease at bay.

"He's getting _better_ about it." Isaac responded carefully. "Still not too keen on taking three breaks a day for meals."

"Oh, speaking of that-" Landon spoke up now, seemingly willing to let a sermon on the evils of Variable Geo slide, "-how's your career, 'Chef Isaac'?"

"Going pretty good. They're asking if I can work extra hours over the summer, so that's saying something." Isaac responded, allowing himself a moment of pride.

Tiffany gave a smirk. "I'd hope they'd at least name a few of the recipes after you. I've been there before you started working there, and believe me, to be able to turn it around like that is nothing short of a miracle."

"Yeah," Ashley chimed in, making a face. "I remember going there one time with my parents after… church." she winced. "The shrimp in my pasta were iodine-y as hell, overcooked with tails on, and they used _ranch dressing_ when they ran out of alfredo sauce." She shuddered in revulsion.

He had read the Geneva Convention (albeit searching for loopholes) and while there wasn't an article pertaining to such culinary abominations, he was still fairly certain that the former dishes counted as war crimes.

One reviewer had put it thusly, "I've been to _Antonio Brothers,_ and I've seen Penalty Rounds up close. After a week-long diet of saltines and _Fey_ soda resulting from my recent lunch at said restaurant, I think Yuka and Satomi got the better end of the deal."

He'd mentioned that review as a joke to Landon, who had nearly broken his jaw and had treated him with stony silence along with Tiffany and Ashley for the better part of two months. He'd refrained from that line of humor since, out of respect for their views. (That, and Landon had a much stronger right hook than his frame would suggest.)

"You've been to Pop's though, right?" Tiffany suggested. "Waitress fetish aside, they do have good burgers and excellent chicken tenders."

Landon grimaced, and Isaac smiled in anticipation. "Me and Isaac went there. _Once._ " He muttered ruefully.

Ashley perked up, intrigued. "What do you mean, _once?_ "

"You know how it has that jukebox that's three plays for a buck, and you can upload songs to it as long as they're not flagged as too sexual or violent? This _asshole-_ " Landon smirked despite himself, jerking a thumb at Isaac, "- put in three dollars, and started punching in repeated plays of the _Crazy Frog_ song-"

Ashley cocked her head. "They threw you out over that?"

"No, it gets worse. Much, _much worse._ So I go to order food, and I think Isaac is going to just keep putting in Crazy Frog plays. And yes, I realize leaving him unsupervised with anything more destructive than a marshmallow is a bad idea, and may God have mercy on my soul." Landon admitted.

Isaac had plans that would use marshmallows for both great evil and hilarity, but he refrained from mentioning them aloud- Landon needed to be able to sleep at night.

"So, like, two plays of Crazy Frog, and no one's really looking up from their phones or food, right? Around midway through the fourth, people are starting to look at the machine like it's broken, and then word gets around that we were the last ones messing with it, so we've got some people shaking their heads at us, and one guy that's squeezing his coffee mug so hard it's about to break… and I kinda want to pay and leave before we get the hell beat out of us, but at the same time I want to see what happens, you know?"

"Of course you did. Which is why you left out the best part- so _this_ asshole," Isaac said, exaggeratedly indicating Landon with both hands, "doesn't stop me in the middle of Operation: Drive Everyone As Crazy As I Am. No, he suggests that after six plays, I put in one play of Summer in the City."

Ashley and Tiffany looked at Landon now, shifting slightly uncomfortably, with the brown-haired girl visibly trying not to laugh at her almost-boyfriend's embarrassment.

"Yeah. I suggested that, because I thought you would only plug in more plays of the Crazy Frog song, like a decent psychopath." Landon responded, narrowing eyes at Isaac.

"Oh, come on, you didn't think I'd be that _boring_ …" Isaac looked offended.

"Wait… you didn't keep playing the Crazy Frog song?" Ashley asked, eyebrow raised.

"No." Landon sighed. "Of course not. While I was ordering our food, Isaac apparently uploaded his _own_ song, and because there weren't any filters to guard against it, he managed to put in the other two plays for his own 'Jourhein Wake-Up Call'."

The two girls stared in disbelief, Ashley covering her mouth in an attempt not to laugh, Tiffany not being so polite. "Is… is…" the brown-haired girl snorted… "…is that the one with the sirens…"

"Yes." Landon sighed.

"And the monkeys?" Ashley asked in a squeak that said she was just about to completely lose it.

"Yep!" Isaac nodded cheerfully. "And the fake orgasm contest, too! But the thing is, I had the Wake Up call set to be at max volume so Bragston could hear it from my room, and the jukebox normally plays songs at like, 50% volume or something."

Ashley wheezed, leaning against a traffic light post for support. Landon looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere for a century, but was visibly holding back a grin, a side effect of being Isaac's accomplice in mischief more than once.

"So we get to see everyone's relief when Summer in the City hit right as they were about to unplug it. People were so happy, the drunk couple was even trying to sing along- _'bUt ThE nIgHt, It'S a DiFfErEnT wOrLd…_ '" Isaac imitated the off-key warbling of the two lovebirds who had one too many somewhere else… "…then the Wakeup Call played."

Both girls, well-accustomed to the constipation-curing properties of Isaac's preferred alarm chime, were nearly doubled over with laughter.

"You know how it goes for twenty-five seconds, and people were commenting on how someone was nice enough to put classical music in…" Isaac let the two girls catch their breath for a moment. "…and then there was screaming."

"No, no-" Landon cut in, "-there was not just _screaming._ There was panic and diving for cover, me as well because YOU-" and he thrust an accusing finger at Isaac even as he suppressed a smirk- "-didn’t bother to tell me 'oh hey I threw in my God-damned version of Satan's Alarm Clock', so I'm thinking there's a terrorist attack while Asshole McGee here is just drinking his soda and snapping his fingers to whatever beat he can hear, people are looking out the windows _and_ in through them to see what the hell is going on, and Isaac asks this poor girl who's got her fists raised and looks like she's ready to throw down for a _refill_ right as the gunfire and orgasms kick in…"

"…and then it cut out right as the police arrived," Isaac continued, barely able to keep it together, "and cut back into the opening, and then they realized it was the jukebox. We were asked to leave after that-"

"We weren't _asked_ to leave!" Landon stared at him in disbelief. "Two waitresses held the door open while the martial arts girl _threw_ us out. Not pushed, not carried, _THREW_ us out, me landing on my bruised ass, and told us if we ever came back, she'd rip our balls off and deep-fry them. So, we're not going back. Ever."

Ashley was wiping her eyes as she fought to regain her composure. "You do realize… you do realize one of these days they're going to actually lock you both up, right?" she asked Isaac.

"Eh, I know a good lawyer." Isaac said with a shrug.

Tiffany finally caught her breath as the bus rolled into view, sighing. "A few more days of this, and then we're free." She said with a hopeful smile.

It was as the bus stopped in front of them and the doors swung open that a question popped into Isaac's head. _Free to do what?_

Summer felt shorter every year, like there was never enough time to do everything he wanted. It would feel like he'd just started a project or got into a good game when it was time for school again, and he knew that in other countries it was worse- one or two months, tops.

They couldn't use magic unless they wanted multiple groups investigating them in all sorts of unpleasant ways, and Sahgace was in assisted living, so they'd have to cobble his notes together and try to figure out things on their own… even then, he wasn't sure he wanted to spend his summer studying, or even spend it working all the time.

_Free to do what?_

It was as he sat with Ashley, back in the very last row of seats, that he realized he didn't know _what_ he wanted to do with his summer… or his life.

She put her hand in his, and he squeezed.

He'd like her to be a part of it, at least.

…

The school day passed uneventfully, almost boring with how completely done most of the teachers were with coursework. Even the bullies seemed to be backing off his friends, so there was no need to cause hilarious, painful accidents. Then it was off to his evening job.

_Antonio Brother's Grill_ was a restaurant that followed a very traditional form of Italian cooking. Unfortunately, this tradition had been enforced by the two original owners of Antonio's- one with no sense of taste, the other with no sense of smell. It was passable to anyone who had never had Italian food before and was currently suffering a severe head cold. To everyone else, it ranked below _McDonald's_ in terms of haute cuisine.

Isaac had taken a job there as a dishwasher, and commented several times that some of the dishes could be greatly improved with some changes- namely serving anything else, including peanut butter and jelly. Finally one night, the head chef lost his temper and gave him a challenge.

"Fine, asshole! Let's see _you_ do better!"

The dish he prepared- _Blanco Diablo,_ was a personal recipe that had won over his family, his friends, his friend's families, the landlord, and the newlyweds down the hall. Sauteed shrimp, green onions, and mushrooms, seasoned with red and black pepper, served over cheese ravioli in a white wine and alfredo sauce.

It had foregone the Antonio Brother's scratch ingredients and used stock shelf items from a nearby grocery. It made multiple critical omissions that were considered the brothers' personal touches. The head chef had sighed in resignation as it was carried out.

The man it was served to expressed bewilderment that this place received such low reviews and said it was better than a four star restaurant he'd been to previously, and so began Isaac's new career as an assistant chef.

Antonio's had a massive turn-around shortly thereafter that had not been _entirely_ his doing- it had simply been the catalyst for a lot of the cooks to admit that they wouldn't eat the restaurants' dishes if they were paid to. He'd contributed the new Antonio special 'Blanco Diablo', a redo of their Toasted Ravioli, and that had inspired the chefs to make some long overdue revisions to the menu.

To guests who inquired why there was a middle-schooler working in the kitchen, the official answer was "he's an apprentice". The truth is Isaac was getting paid rather well for his endeavors, which helped to fund the hobbies he didn't dare disclose in the kitchen…

"Ravioli done, Blanco will be in six!" he chimed, putting into the window the dish in question: cheese ravioli, tossed in olive oil and black pepper, topped with mozzarella and broiled until golden brown, served with spicy marinara sauce. It had raised eyebrows at first, when the usual method was just to deep-fry pre-cooked ravioli. Now it was one of the most popular items.

"Steak and pasta for table 4, order up!" hollered another.

"Where the fuck is the calamari for the party group?" hissed a waiter.

Calamari was not his concern, and he turned back to the skillet and cauldron for the shrimp, mushrooms, and ravioli. Boil, drain, sauté, sauce, repeat.

And so it went. There was little room for crazy here, crazy got you or someone else hurt, and nobody here had pissed him off enough to warrant that. Even the friendliest of chefs screamed at each other out of necessity over the din of the kitchen. Chop, fry, sauté, stir, dodge the hot pot being carried, dice, slice-

Several times he had to use a towel to wipe sweat from his brow as flambé flames rose on either side of him. He made a mental note to look into some sort of fire resistance charm that could be worn discretely. There was a window for shelving ready dishes for a waiter to take them out, his one view into the dimly lit dining area of Antonio's, now considerably fuller than it had been when he had first started.

Finally, around 8:31, the head chef tapped him on the shoulder. "Good work today, Isaac. You're good to go."

He loved his job, and he loved cooking, but school and a job in the same day wore him down, so he didn't bother to ask for extra hours. He swapped his chef whites for his street clothes in the restroom, gave a farewell to his fellow cooks, and headed out into the streets.

The streets at night were dangerous, and the walk to the bus stop was best done at a dead sprint. Nevertheless, Isaac took his time, exhausted from the day, considering what he'd do in a few weeks when summer vacation started.

Bragston could probably stand to go a few weeks without dedicated torment, so he'd check in on Gramps, tend his plants, maybe clean up his house a little, and then work on any number of personal projects. It wasn't like he had nothing to do, it was more a matter about what he wanted to do.

His head swiveled to the left, and he stopped.

He couldn't see it from here, didn't want to see it, but down that street was where **that man's** house had been… they'd already cleaned up the burned remains, closed the case, and everything was done for good.

_A cup of juice that made him sleepy_

It was done. The problem was resolved. Permanently. He didn't need to think about-

_Waking up, face down in a bed, trying to get up-_

IT WAS DONE. THE PROBLEM WAS RESOLVED.

**Permanently.**

He recalled his grandfather's advice from back then, the senior Jourhein not even touching his shoulder because he wasn't ready to be touched again, but offering permission to focus on other things, telling him it was okay to not think about bad things now that it was resolved. Permanently.

Don't think about bad things. He should be thinking about earning more money over the summer, he decided. Or studying magic. Or making that fire-ward ring. Or the guy following him. Or maybe playing video games with Landon, or… wait, back up a second, what?

It was after he crossed one street that he noticed he was being followed, a large guy, all by himself, picking up the pace.

Sahgace had told him not to use magic in public, but there was a very important stipulation to that rule, he recalled as he stepped into an alley. It stank, but it was abandoned, devoid of even the homeless, and perfect for a mental diversion from bad things…

He pretended to check his flip-phone, turning to see his mugger advancing- a man in dark grey clothes, clearly unshaven, nose squashed flat either from birth or repeated punches to the face.

Ordinarily, this was a very bad situation to be in. However, it had been during a very special episode of his favorite late-night cartoon that he had learned the perfect way to deal with assholes like this, courtesy of "Bobble's A Danger to Strangers". He wouldn't be using a broken bottle or crowbar for this exercise, but Bobble always emphasized playing to your strengths.

_"Remember kiddos,"_ spoke the brightly colored clown, dualcolored blue/green jacket splattered with fresh blood from a previously confident mugger, _"whether your skill is breaking skulls or breaking physics, be sure_ you're _not the one who gets broken!"_

Step one accomplished. They were out of sight, and out of mind. That brought him to step two, which was killing the bastard if he tried anything _without_ alerting anyone in the neighborhood.

It didn't hurt that this wasn't the first time someone had tried to corner him out of sight and mind. The last one had left meteorologists and physicists baffled at how a lightning bolt had struck down in between two buildings outfitted with lightning rods to fatally electrocute a wanted child molester. That had been a little too suspicious…

"Gimme your money and phone, kid." the mugger growled, pulling out a switchblade- _oooh,_ that was bad… for him. He wanted that knife. Bobble always encouraged multiple forms of conflict resolution, and the sad fact is Black Magic or explosives weren't always viable…

"So tell me, Mr. Jack-The-Ripoff," Isaac asked playfully as he took a step backwards, "is that knife bigger than your dick? Because we've learned about compensation-"

"Money. Phone. Now." He snarled. Bobble always suggested trying to read someone, to say things that either made them angry or overconfident, because then they made mistakes.

"You know it's really rude to interrupt someone when they're talking." He took another step back. "Say, is it just you, or is it cold out tonight?" Yes, that would do nicely. No flash, no scent of burning flesh…

"What the fuck are you talking about? Give me whatever you got, or I'll cut you!"

"Wow, hard of hearing, small of dick, _and_ stupid. I'm guessing you have to get out the magnifying glass when you need to tug one off, right? Now is it cold out here, or is it _just you?_ " Now he was far back enough…

"Fuck you." Snarled his attacker, and he charged…

He grinned despite himself.

_PLAY TIME._

…

The moment Brandon decided to confront the pale-skinned black haired 'freak' in an alley was the very same his life was shortened from years to seconds. Isaac was no stranger to this routine, following a cartoon clown's instructions to the letter even as the episode played back in his head, altering his previous methods for the sake of avoiding undue suspicion.

Brandon was a dead man, and the rest was so much gory details.

After the kid mouthed off to him several times, he decided he needed to make an example- remind the other thugs on the streets he was the coldest sonofabitch among them, and it didn't matter who you were, where you came from, everyone paid Brandon the "Tollman" if they didn't want to end up on the evening news.

Then the smiling scarecrow fucker grinned, pulled his hands back like he was mimicking those sluts, some anime-freak kid who thinks he can shoot energy blasts in real life and needed a lesson in the real world-

Scarecrow shouted some gobble-de-gook as he thrust his hands forward, and Brandon jerked back as a blast of winter air made his eyes painfully cold, his throat catching-

He couldn't breathe, and his hand went to his throat, cutting itself on something cold and sharp. Icicle in his throat, more in his chest, a cold sting all that he could feel…

"Oh, I guess it's just you." Said the Scarecrow dismissively.

Grabbing at the sharp lance with both hands as he dropped the knife, he staggered backward as he pulled, cutting his hands, and finally the icicle pulled free. As warmth ran down his chest and the numbness gave way to pain, he realized that was not a smart move.

"Ooh, this is a good knife." The Scarecrow said as he bent over to pick up his switchblade. "Mind if I keep it? It's not like you're gonna need it any time soon."

He tried to scream, but blood pooled in his throat, made him gag. The boy snapped his fingers, and what had been a dull cold sting in his heart and stomach turned into cold pain as the ice shattered violently into razor fragments that ripped him open anew. He dropped to his knees, grabbing at the wound in his throat as blood now flowed from his chest wound, the Scarecrow stepping around the ichor carefully.

"AnD wHaT hAvE wE lEaRnEd ToDaY, bOyS aNd GhOuLs?" the Scarecrow asked in a clownish, simpleton's voice. "Ooh, ooh, me, me! I know Bobble! 'Play stupid games, win stupid prizes'!"

Brandon tried to stand even as a black ring of darkness encroached on his vision, fatigue filling him along with a sense of dreadful knowing that if he laid down to sleep, he'd never wake up again…

"On that enlightening note, thank you for participating in an impromptu combination of Black Magic Self-Defense and my own fucked up form of therapy. Have a very very very _very_ stupid day. You've earned it." There was a sharp impact on his left buttock as the Scarecrow gave him a final swift kick in the ass.

The dark ring closed everything else out, like in those cartoons he used to watch, and he felt himself slump forward.

He fell, and never really stopped.

…

Isaac tucked his prize away in his backpack, skipping to the bus stop, taking a few moments to ensure there wasn't any incriminate residue of the scumbag on his clothes, then resuming his stride once he was satisfied. The driver, a kindly middle aged woman, dark chocolate skin and lively curly hair, greeted him as he boarded the bus.

"Isn't it a little late for someone like you to be out on the streets? It's dangerous." She admonished as Isaac slapped his bus pass against the reader.

" _Dangerous_?" Isaac said incredulously as he sat in the first seat opposite her, the bus relatively empty except for a few late-shifters like himself. He looked outside at the dimly lit streets, feigning confusion. "Are you sure?"

"There's a guy walking around here after dark, mugging people, calls himself the Tollman… ugly bastard from what I hear, no soul. He goes after anyone if he thinks they got something he can pawn."

"Wow. He sounds dangerous. I hope I never run into him, I can't even begin to think of where I'd hide the body!"

She gave a dark laugh as they drove off. "Little man, you need a reality check. He gets anywhere near you, drop everything you got and run, you understand? You try to fight people like that, it never ends well."

Isaac smiled. "You don't say."

…

He was still in a cheerful mood when he walked through the door, and was about to happily ask Mom how her head-shrinking work was going when he saw her and dad- his normally neatly combed hair in disarray and his usual calm replaced with worry- sitting at the family table. Mom looked similarly distraught.

_SHIT!_ Well, this was it, wasn't it? He was screwed. They'd had to find out eventually about his pranks- hopefully it was just the hornet's nest, and not the flashbangs or the… shit, did they already know about the guy he iced? How-

"Hello, Isaac." His father said ruefully. "Sit down. We need to talk."

_Feign ignorance. Deny everything. Blame the Democrats. Blame the Republicans. Blame the Illuminati._

"Did something happen?" Isaac asked cautiously, trying not to shake too much. _Why did he keep the knife? WHY DID HE KEEP THE KNIFE?!_ He didn't even need it right now, and if he learned more black magic it would be nothing but dead weight-

"Yeah. You know how your mother and I don't like the tournaments, right?"

_Wait, what?_

"…y-yes?" he answered cautiously.

"Well, unknown to me, I got entered into a drawing for the Variable Geo tournament cruise being held this summer, and I won. Only when I refused, my boss called me in, said our VP would be on the boat as well, and that I was going. When I told him I didn’t support that… mess, he started telling me I was too old fashioned, and that if I wasn't willing to play with the boys, I could… go somewhere else."

_Oh good. They hadn't found out about the flashbangs._

Then the weight of what his father had said hit him, and he summarized the feelings of the three Jourhein clan members succinctly.

"Shit."

…

_"Candidate #6 is perhaps the most volatile and dangerous of our current selections, but also the grandson to Sahgace Jourhein (A.K.A. the 'Tarot Mage') as well as one of his four suspected apprentices. Isaac possesses multiple talents that would suit our needs, among them alchemy, black magic, enchantment, and construction of anti-personnel devices. While psych evaluations of the other three apprentices (see attached file) suggest they would never willingly work with us, Isaac's disposition toward quickly and violently resolving threats to his friends or himself (see report on 'Tollman' homicide) suggests he would be far more pliable. Using him to extend a reason to the other three apprentices might get us a working knowledge of red, white, and time magic as well. (Note: verification of speculation still pending)"_

_"On a more immediate note, Isaac is an acknowledged chef and is the sole reason Antonio's has gone from abyssal ratings to being a premier restaurant. We've spoken with the owner, Angelo Antonio, and he's agreed to extend our invitation to Isaac. To further ensure he will accept the terms, we've ensured his father, the primary breadwinner of the family and suspected contact with Verum-i, will be dismissed from his job shortly. We suggest the resume suppression campaign last only long enough to get Isaac desperate enough to take our offer."_

_"Our contact in Chicago is on standby should Isaac seek out counsel for any moral dilemmas, as is our own personal contact ready for affirmation on retrieval. Psych evaluations suggest that only a temporary deception will be needed to get him in our employ. (Note: Isaac's reactions to threats made against his friends or family have been noted to be extreme. Advise against hostage situations.)"_

\- Jahana Research Notes regarding Candidate #6/6, Isaac Jourhein. Recommendation: Chef, then conversion to Magic Research- possible alchemy studies?

Addendum: _"I feel obligated to express my opinion that we should either neutralize Candidate #6 or ignore him entirely. The boy is clearly insane, suffering from some form of dissociative post-traumatic stress disorder, and displays a frightening creativity in regards to violence, notable in the multiple unexplained deaths surrounding his immediate area. Isaac scores distressingly low on empathy suppression tests administered at his school, showing a violent opposition to cruelty, especially towards relatives and friends."_

_"I've also attached the results of an incident from four years ago regarding criminal charges made by the Jourhein family against the late Turner Mulloc. Given the nature of the alleged offenses and the suspicious nature of Mulloc's death, I believe we do NOT want his current preconceptions about the V.G. Tournament being 'staged' to be challenged while he's onboard the Loviatar, or in any of our secure facilities. At best, he may develop mental issues that interfere with his tasks. At worst, he may react violently."_

_"I humbly ask that he be removed from the list of candidates and possibly slated for discrete termination ASAP."_

-Dissenting Opinion offered by Asst. Chief Psychological Profiler Ohgod Whatthefuck, recently terminated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because every group needs at least one person who can't be trusted with matches, sharp objects, flammables, or access to inflatable clowns.
> 
> No, this won't end well at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes... I am aware there is something very wrong with me. If you read Tiger Chronicles on ff.net, you wouldn't be surprised.


End file.
